


Thin Walls

by ahurston



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Accidental Auditory Voyeurism/Exhibitionism Via Eponymous 'Thin Walls', Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drunk Patrick, Home Improvement, M/M, Pining, Roommates, Slow Burn, Super Convenient Bed-Sharing, Takes place in Seasons 2 and 3 but what is time really?, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21654340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahurston/pseuds/ahurston
Summary: Patrick moves to Schitt's Creek a year early, around the same time David is considering obtaining his own apartment.Roommate shenanigans ensue.12/31/2019: Now with an epilogue, containing completely unrealistic refractory periods as well as a little dash of anxiety!
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 282
Kudos: 912





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bless you, [this_is_not_nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/pseuds/this_is_not_nothing), without whom, no self-indulgent roommate fic would've ever come to be. 
> 
> Also, this fic has essentially been crowdsourced by the #Writing channel in the Rosebudd Motel - love y'all.

“And here we have a charming micro-studio, with the added convenience of intimate proximity to Bob’s Garage!” Ray said, with a startling amount of misplaced enthusiasm for 8:00 in the goddamn morning. “For all your auto repair needs!” 

“I don’t have a car,” David said, aiming for diplomatic so that he’d likely land on passably not-rude. Really reaching for the stars.

Ray opened the door to what appeared to be a storage room in the corner of the garage. No amount of showmanship could hide the concrete floor or the lingering smell of gasoline, grease, and windshield wiper fluid that permeated the room. Nook. Closet. 

“This...space...cannot be code compliant. For human beings to live in.” David said.

“Well, no, not exactly? You’d technically be leasing it as commercial office space.”

“But I’m not looking for office space, Ray,” David said, absentmindedly leaning against the door frame, and then pulling away immediately as though he’d been burned. This particular knit was not forgiving of oil stains. 

“I know, I know. But, honestly David? You haven’t given me much to work with. On your limited budget, there aren’t too many options for, how did you put it? ‘Charming, eclectic, breathable environments.’”

David sighed - he’d figured as much. But since Alexis had put the idea into his head of finding his own place to live, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. The very possibility of finally having the luxury to jerk off in peace like a civilized adult without the constant threat of his family’s unavoidable presence was too great an enticement. 

“There may be one other option.”

David looked up from studying a mysterious Rorschach stain on the floor.

“Have you considered a two bedroom? A roommate - maybe your sister?”

“No. No, I haven’t considered that, and no. Nope.”

David had, in fact, considered that. But the entire point of this exercise was to _stop_ sharing his living environment with Alexis. If there was any other option, anything at all. That is, anything other than this biohazard death trap of a closet in Bob’s Garage.

“Perhaps someone else, then? Or is it a no on roommates altogether?”

David thought about it. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t lived with people before, even excluding the past eighteen months he’d spent trying desperately to ignore any sounds of unknown origin he could hear through the motel walls from his parents’ room. Or dealing with Alexis’ occasional sleepwalking and complete monopolization of their bathroom’s medicine cabinet for toiletry storage. 

After all, he’d lived with Becca, in that marvelous live/work loft in SoHo. And with Antony and Kaia, that summer he’d spent in a Croatian coastal villa, making abstract pottery and fucking the both of them every single day. 

"I would...maybe...potentially. Be open to a roommate. If they were, you know -" Here, David made a complicated gesture with his hands that he hoped Ray could interpret.

"Ah, I see," Ray said, smiling.

What a relief. "You do?"

"Not at all. But I think I know the perfect person."

*

David tapped his fingers on the cafe's ugly Formica table top and tried to ignore the wafting scent of Twyla's shrimp bisque. He was early, which was insane. Who shows up early to a lunch meet-and-greet with your prospective future roommate?

It wasn't like he didn't have other plans. People wanted to see him. Totally. He was so busy. It was just that Blouse Barn was closed for the week, with Wendy away on a Lonely Hearts Scrapbooking Cruise in the Baltic Sea. And he was seeing Stevie later, but she wasn't free until 6:00, and Alexis was busy "working" or whatever at Ted's vet clinic. So he was early for this. Marinating in the stench of reheated-from-frozen shrimp bisque and his own natural distrust of all human beings who walked the planet, David kept drumming his fingers on the table, and tried to imagine what a "perfect person" meant to someone like Ray.

He didn't have to wonder long, if the searching look on the fresh-faced guy who just walked through the door was any indication. Dressed in a poorly fitted shirt that was doing nothing to set off what appeared to be, at a squint, a perfectly adequate set of shoulders. Very adequate, actually. Hm. 

"David?" the bad-shirt man said, sticking out his hand for David to shake. "I'm Patrick."

David glanced at the proffered hand. Square palm, sturdy fingers. You could tell a lot about a person by their hands. 

“Hi David, I’m Patrick,” David said, gripping Patrick’s hand with his. 

Patrick tipped his head at him, a smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. David realized they’d been shaking hands approximately thirty years too long. He let go of Patrick’s hand, and realized what he’d said. He grimaced, an iceberg of an expression that hopefully showed only 5% of the discomfort he felt underneath the surface. This was going _great_. 

“Do you want to sit?” David asked, hoping Patrick could grasp that David was clearly insane and would sensibly make for the exit. But no. 

“Sure.”

Patrick settled across from him, hands blessedly in his lap so as to spare David any further distraction-induced embarrassment. 

“So, Ray said you’re looking for a roommate?” Patrick asked.

“No. Yes. Maybe? In theory. It’s all very hypothetical.”

“You’re...looking for a hypothetical roommate?”

“No, probably a real one? I’m not sure. I, well, I live in the motel? The one by the highway on-ramp. And I share a room with my sister, and that’s, um, less than ideal? So I thought I’d look for something else, but the rents in this town are inexplicably high, so. So - someone. Someone should...look into that.”

Patrick’s near-invisible eyebrows were making a run for his very neat hairline, and he appeared to be holding back a laugh. Great. David loved being _funny._

He waved a hand at Patrick. “What about you? You need a roommate too?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, scratching at the back of his neck. “Kind of a parallel situation to yours, except it’s Ray and not my sister. I mean, I don’t have a sister. Anyway, I’m crashing on Ray’s couch. He was supposed to have a spare room available, but - it’s not important. So yes. I need a roommate.”

Now it was Patrick’s turn to look embarrassed, and David’s turn to bite back a grin. 

Patrick continued. “Like you said - the rents are crazy here, and the only studio I could afford was, well, uninhabitable? There were a lot of tires in there.”

David knew just what he meant. 

“And I thought, ‘Anything has to be better than that,’ so here I am.”

“Thank you for saying I’m a better option than a pile of tires in Bob’s Garage.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Patrick said, with a smirk. 

What was happening now? Was this flirting? Was he flirting? Hard to say.

“So what do you look for in a roommate?” Patrick asked. 

“Um, well, I don’t think my previous experience with roommates actually has much relevance?” _Don’t think about fucking Antony and Kaia, don’t think about fucking, don’t think about -_

“Oh...ok.” Patrick rubbed at the back of his neck again. “Mine probably isn’t relevant either. I’d been, uh, living with my girlfriend until recently, and...” he trailed off.

Ah, ok. Not that the girlfriend mention necessarily precluded the possibility of flirting. 

“Got it. So neither of us know what we’re doing. What could go wrong?” David asked, as he mentally started tabulating a list of everything that could, in fact, go wrong. 

“I actually do have a couple of questions though, if that’s alright?” Patrick asked, as David tried not to worry about whether Patrick made a habit of microwaving leftover fish. 

“By all means.” 

Patrick pulled out his phone, searching for something in it. “You - you made a compilation?”

Patrick looked up. “Hm? Yeah. I found something online. A list of questions to ask a potential roommate.”

“Do I need to provide my fingerprints? A background check?” David asked, mouth twisting. 

“Oh, that’s ok. I already know who you are.”

David blanched, and then remembered who, in fact, he was. For better or worse, the entirety of the internet was a publicly searchable database on the Rose Family.

“...Right.”

“I’m sorry, that sounded weird. I didn’t look you up. Well, that’s mostly true. All I did was search for ‘David Rose’ and ‘Murderer,’ and when nothing came up...”

“You’re hilarious. So what assurances do I get? I assume your sweet sixteen wasn’t attended by Will Smith _and_ Helena Bonham Carter, so I doubt I’ll be able to dig up a bunch of intel online about you anyway.”

Patrick laughed. “Ok, let’s see. I could give you my college dormmate’s phone number? As a reference? But I think he’s teaching English in Uzbekistan now, so that might be a challenge.”

David waved him off. “It’s fine.” It was? Who said that? He did, that’s who. And he was an idiot. “So what’s on your roommate compatibility questionnaire?”

*

Two hours later, after a regrettable order of mozzarella sticks, two cups of coffee (David), and three cups of tea (Patrick), they’d made it through Patrick’s list of “CRITICAL Questions You MUST Ask Your Maybe-Roommate,” courtesy of an over-confident Buzzfeed contributor.

David had learned some upsetting things. Namely, that Patrick preferred to wake up at 6:00 AM. Although, David had exacted a firm promise that Patrick would never make this an apartment-wide requirement. Also, Patrick had absolutely no objections to David claiming whichever bedroom had a bigger closet, because, he said, all his clothes “fit just fine in a dresser.” This was distressing, but it worked in David’s favor. 

On the flipside, David had learned that Patrick was a clean person. He objected to dishes left in the sink overnight, regularly cleaned his shower curtain _and_ the liner, and knew how to fold a fitted sheet. This was all fantastic news. 

In return, David had disclosed that he would require the majority (read: nearly all) of the bathroom storage, and that he reserved the right to offer polite, weekly feedback on Patrick’s sartorial choices. 

They established a few ground rules. No flossing or nail trimming in common areas of the apartment, obviously. Several other bathroom etiquette-related rules that David was happily surprised to find they held as common values. And, most critically, Patrick promised not to monopolize the TV for sports if David promised the same for the E! Channel.

All in all, it seemed like they were as well-suited to platonic cohabitation as two strangers who had just met that day could be. Patrick texted Ray for his next available showings of the middlingest two bedroom apartments Schitt's Creek had to offer. Here goes nothing.

*

"David, I'm not sleeping in a three season porch," Patrick said, arms crossed. 

"It's a second bedroom!"

"It's a porch. The windows are screens."

"Fair. Fair. But, _Patrick,"_ David whined, pawing at his shoulder, valiantly trying not to notice how soft his sweater was. "The bathroom is nice! A walk-in closet!"

"Porch."

*

“This one’s nice,” Patrick said. “Hardwired smoke detectors, grounded outlets, a sprinkler system..."

“I’m getting the sense that these are all things I _should_ care about, but counterpoint - you have to stand inside the tub to shut the bathroom door,” David replied, demonstrating. 

Patrick nodded. “Noted.”

*

“Too close to the motel,” David objected.

*

“Too close to the highway,” Patrick pointed out.

“The whole _town_ is close to the...okay.”

*

“Gentlemen, if I may make an observation?” Ray said, locking the door to the up/down duplex that smelled strongly of fermenting fruit. “I think we may need to reevaluate your...expectations...for this apartment.”

David rubbed his temples, letting out a long, slow breath. 

Patrick nodded, alert and attentive, the picture of composure. In this moment, David maybe hated him. Soft sweater and annoyingly nice shoulders not withstanding. 

“I’ve shown you all of the conventional listings I currently have available, but there is one other,” Ray said. “I know that neither of you were open to the live-slash-work nature of the space adjacent to Bob’s Garage -”

“ _Inside_ Bob’s Garage,” Patrick corrected, and David liked him again. 

“Inside, adjacent to - who can say. Anyway. This other unit. Let me tell you. Exposed brickwork, original wood floors, tons of character.”

“What’s the catch?” David asked.

“Well, it’s in more or less, shall we say, vintage condition? It’s currently being used as a storage space for the general store, but the owners of the store are looking to reduce their expenses, and want to sublet it."

"So, to clarify, is this space _inside_ the general store?" Patrick pressed, and David liked him a little more.

"No, no. _Above_."

*

Ray unlocked the creaky steel door at the back of the general store. 

“Well, that’s a vaguely haunting sound,” David said, stepping into the poorly lit stairwell with a fair degree of trepidation. 

Patrick clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s try to withhold judgment, yeah? This is our last option. Otherwise, it’s back to Ray’s couch for me and Alexis’ undiagnosed sleep apnea for you.”

“Good point, good point. Okay. Let’s do this.”

The stairs squeaked and groaned as they made their way up. The bare lightbulb flickered in a way David tried his hardest not to find ominous. 

“Here we are,” Ray said. 

David took in the tin ceiling tiles, wide plank floors, and...spiderwebs, boxes, and cracked plaster walls. _Open mind open mind open mind._

“I mean, it’s got good bones?” Patrick said, generously. “Provided the general store moved out all the expired rat poison and breakfast cereal - which, side note, shouldn’t be stored next to each other? This place could be really nice.”

“You would...pay money? To live here?” David asked, hands over his head to shield his hair from any nefarious insects. 

“Well, no. But I’d maybe barter for it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I used to work construction with my uncle during the summers back in college,” Patrick said.

Of course he did, with shoulders like that. “And?”

Patrick turned to Ray, who was fiddling with the dial on an ancient radiator. “What if we proposed a trade. David and I, we fix this place up, get it inhabitable, and in return, the landlord offers us...what would you say is fair, Ray? A 50% cut off the rent, plus the cost of any materials?”

Ray dusted off his hands, turning to face them. “That could work! I’ve got to say, gentlemen, this property has been hard for me to move. Let me call the owner to see if he’d be amenable. Just a moment.”

Ray stepped out into the hallway.

“Little concerned about the ‘David and I’ part of your proposal,” David said. 

Patrick laughed. “Can you paint?”

David rolled his eyes. “Yes, I can paint,” he said, proud of himself for holding back a name drop or twelve about the great post-modern painters he’d studied under. 

“Great. And I can teach anybody how to drill.”

“I already know how to, um. Drill,” David said. 

Ray chose that moment to reappear.

“I think we have a deal!”

“Great!” Patrick said, running a hand over the rough plaster walls. “Then do you think the landlord would mind if we fill these deep voids?”

David wished for a drink in his hands so he could theatrically spit it out. _Fill these deep voids_ , my God. 

“I’m sure that would be fine,” Ray said. 

“I’m really good with caulk too, so I can -”

And David stopped listening, having transcended to another plain of existence where Patrick wasn’t talking about being skilled with _caulk._

David clued back in to their conversation just in time for Patrick to ask, “What about a self-rimming sink for the kitchen?”

“These...cannot...be real terms,” David muttered to himself, wandering away to one of the theoretical bedrooms. 

This room had annoying good southern exposure. It would be excellent for a tasteful display of plants. Maybe on some ladder shelves? A sand and stone palette, plush rugs, authentically distressed furniture...he could see it. 

“Wow, nice natural light in here,” Patrick said. David tried not to jump, not having realized he was there, so immersed was he in the vision of what this room might one day become. 

“Could you build me a closet?” David asked.

“Oh sure. As long as I can mount it on a solid stud.”

_Jesus Christ._

*

It turned out that the owner of the building containing both the general store and the storage space-slash-future apartment was more than happy to go along with Patrick’s offer of a swap of labor for discounted rent. An extremely casual lease showed up in David’s email later that day from Ray, along with a string of enthusiastic emojis. 

Unfortunately, given the current state of the unit, the occupancy date of a week from now represented more of a construction start date than anything else. David would have to cope with Alexis’ sleepwalking for at least a few more weeks. Last night, she had reenacted the role of a very aggressive spin class instructor at 2:00 AM.

He and Patrick exchanged a few texts, and David shared the moodboard he had developed for the apartment’s theme. That had led to some follow-up questions from his soon-to-be roommate, while David was working a grueling four hour shift at the Blouse Barn.

 **Patrick** :

_What does ‘oxygenated’ mean, in builders’ terms?_

Patrick, David was quickly learning, was a little shit. David texted back. 

**David:**

_You know, like airy? Open?_

**Patrick:**

_Plush toilet lid covers, you got it._

“David - are you sure about this window display?” Wendy asked, interrupting David’s attempt at texting Patrick a devastating comeback from behind the Blouse Barn’s cash register. “Are these sweaters made of _real_ horsehair?”

David’s phone beeped, and he glanced down at it before treading into the quagmire that was Wendy’s understanding of fashion as a form of artistic expression. 

**Patrick:**

_I think I’m really seeing the vision. Wall-to-wall shag carpeting, plenty of shelving for my tchotkes. My trinkets. My display of ceramic cats and porcelain dolls._

The next text from Patrick was a partial selfie, an ear and half a grin really. In the background was a display of Ray’s (please let it be Ray’s) ‘collectibles.’ Why was this charming? And did Patrick have unusually attractive ears, or was he losing his mind? David might not live through this. 

*

“So I borrowed a tile saw from Ronnie, in exchange for joining her baseball team,” Patrick said, across from him in a booth at the cafe. “Which is great, because I wanted to join anyway, and they were in desperate need of a shortstop.”

“I don’t know what that means, but go on,” David said, taking a sip of his smoothie, today a threatening chartreuse. What did Twyla put in these?

“Yeah, so we can start drywalling on Friday - you don’t work on Fridays, right? I asked Ray for the afternoon off.”

“I don’t work Fridays, correct, but quick question, when you say ‘we,’ what does my role in this endeavor entail?”

“Measuring, taping, mudding, and sanding - all that,” Patrick said, spearing a grape tomato from his semi-wilted house salad. 

“Feeling pretty comfortable with measuring, not so sure about the rest? Sounds messy.”

“Oh, it is.” Patrick took a drink from his soda, mouth around his straw. Straws should be illegal. Or Patrick’s mouth should be illegal. Something should for sure be illegal, and in the meantime, David was really trying not to stare. 

“I’m not sure I have the right...” David searched for an excuse. Any excuse. “Clothes. For that.”

“No problem,” Patrick shrugged. “You can borrow mine.”

Ugh. “I just don’t think things like mudding or sanding are skills entirely within my wheelhouse?” David took another sip of the smoothie and regretted it. “Have I told you about when I tried make a cedar chest? It did not go well.”

Patrick grinned at him, undeterred. “Then this will be a fun learning experience! A roommate bonding exercise.”

“See, the last time someone suggested I undertake a bonding exercise, I ended up on the scientology yacht for thirteen straight days until I feigned a stroke and got airlifted back to Bali.”

“It’s just remodeling, David. I solemnly promise not to audit you.”

David shuddered. He wasn’t entirely sure that drywall dust would be much worse. 

*

On his way back from work on Thursday, David swung into Ray’s to visit Patrick, who had suspiciously not replied to David’s multiple requests for his opinion on the relative merits of pearl versus cotton white as a base shade for their living room. 

“I’m sorry, David. Patrick isn’t here.”

“...Oh,” David said, feeling vaguely stupid with the to-go cup of rooibos tea in his hand that he had picked up for Patrick on the way over here. He’d put an embarrassing amount of thought into whether or not Patrick drank caffeinated tea in the afternoon. He’d even gone so far as to consult the judgy teenage barista in Elmdale’s finest coffee shop, the horrendously named 'Latte Da.' Humiliating.

“He’s probably hiking. He hikes whenever Rachel calls. But it’s none of my business. I shouldn’t gossip.”

“Who’s Rachel?” David asked, feigning nonchalance, fiddling with the cardboard sleeve around the cup. 

“I shouldn’t say. Patrick is my friend. We’ve grown close, you know, these weeks he’s been living on my couch. I’ll miss him, after he’s moved out.”

“Mm. Yes. So not telling me who Rachel is then.”

“No, David. Have a good night.”

*

Patrick had undersold the amount of dust involved in this project. Friday afternoon had been more or less fine, with David able to demonstrate his very precise measuring skills, honed in an intimate workshop led by Yoko Ono where they had made a room full of life-size origami cranes as protest art against the Iraq War. But now it was Saturday, and Saturday meant sanding.

“That’s a good look for you,” Patrick said, after they had sanded off the first layer of joint compound.

David pulled the dust mask off of his mouth. “I hate you so much right now.”

“Hey, you’re wearing my clothes. And my hat. And I got you that respirator. You should be thanking me.”

David glared at him, but he had a feeling the look wasn’t carrying the amount of malice he intended. 

Patrick approached him, putting his hands on David’s shoulders. "David, there's something I should tell you."

David tried not to audibly gulp. The combination of teasing, filth, and the wrong, bad feeling of his own body in these clothes should be suppressing what felt startlingly like the beginnings of arousal. But. 

"You have drywall dust in your eyebrows."

Shit fucking damnit. "You go straight to hell," David said, more breathily than he intended. It sounded suspiciously like an endearment. 

*

Things started taking a turn for the dire when they moved on to carpentry. Patrick had texted to say they would be installing the molding the following weekend, which led David to do a hurried bit of googling behind the Blouse Barn’s counter before he replied. He was becoming invested in not looking like an idiot. 

When he’d arrived at the apartment that Saturday morning, he’d been confronted with the arresting sight of Patrick in cut off jean shorts, a Blue Jays t-shirt with at least eight different colors of dried paint on it, and a broad smile. 

“Could you hold the ladder while I nail this in?” Patrick asked, beckoning him inside.

“...Sure.” David did his damnedest to keep his eyes away from the pale strip of skin visible above the waistline of Patrick’s godawful shorts as Patrick gently tapped the piece of crown molding into place along the ceiling. He decided to instead try to actually learn something and focus on Patrick’s technique. Except that was worse, because he was accosted by the sight of Patrick’s forearms, unavoidably on display. Hands, then. Worse yet - the strong fingers of one hand wrapped around the hammer’s handle, the other carefully keeping the wood trim in place.

“David?” Patrick said from above him. 

“Hmm?”

“I said, could you let me down? You’re kind of blocking the way.”

“Oh.” David stepped around to the side of the ladder, still holding it steady until Patrick was once again on solid ground. 

“Can you get the wood filler and take care of all the holes now?” 

“Excuse me?”

“The nail holes, David. Gotta fill them in before we paint the trim.”

“...Right.” 

Was this what dying felt like?

*

"Stevie, he has these _arms_ ," David lamented into his glass of what might be half-fermented prune juice. Hard to say for sure at the Wobbly Elm. It was supposed to be a Shiraz. He swiveled on his stool. Wobbly indeed. Who puts _rotating stools_ in a dive bar. A lawsuit waiting to happen, that's what it was. Someone should do something about it. Patrick could probably do something about it. With his business major and his button shirts and his stupid, dumb smirk, he could probably do a lot of things. 

"So you’ve said. Thrice. Really, it’s an unhealthy fixation, given that you are platonically _moving in with him_ ," Stevie said. 

"Ugh. I know. It’s so stupid. So, so stupid. Adding to the general stupidity, there's a _Rachel._ "

"What's a 'Rachel?'"

"I don't know. No one will tell me." David let his heavy head thunk onto the counter in front of him. This was regrettable, as the surface smelled like circus peanuts and depression.

"You've asked Patrick about her? With your real, big boy words?" 

David rolled his head to the side on the counter, toward Stevie and her annoying questions. "No? Why would I do that?"

"Because you're a mature adult capable of dealing with complex human relationships - nevermind."

David flipped her off. 

“Fine, fine. Ignore me.” Stevie hopped off her stool. “Let me take you home.”

“You’re a good friend, Stevie Budd,” David said, pouring himself off his stool and following her bonelessly toward the exit.

“I know. You don’t deserve me.”

*

“So, not to pry,” David started, rolling a smooth line of pearl white paint onto their living room wall, “But um. Would you ever want to share a bit about what brought you here?”

Patrick looked down at him from where he was perched on the ladder, trimming in the ceiling ahead of David’s roller. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Totally fine. Just, uh, curious. Figured you probably knew my story already, so I thought I’d ask. Even the scales? Not that you owe me details.” He was rambling now, definitely rambling. _Big boy words_ , Stevie had said. “It’s just - we’ve been spending a lot of time together, and -” Where was he going with this? Somebody stop him. 

“It’s fine, David. You can ask. Uh, it’s kind of a long story though? Maybe later? Over a drink?”

Oh good, now they’d be going to another venue, with dim lighting and alcohol, to talk about Patrick’s mysterious past. David’s next pass with the roller was decidedly crooked. 

“Watch the overlap there,” Patrick pointed out. 

*

**Patrick:**

_Cafe or Wobby Elm?_

David hesitated before replying. Neither? Was neither an option? Was there literally no other possible venue that didn’t smell like broken dreams or burnt fish?

**Patrick:**

_Or we don’t have to. No big deal._

Shit, shit, now he’d waited too long to reply. 

**David:**

_No, I still want to_

_Hang on_

_Let me think_

**Patrick:**

_About whether you want to?_

**David:**

_About where else we can go_

**Patrick:**

_Ah, I understand. Afraid to be seen with me publicly._

**David:**

_Yes that’s it_

_Important to protect my reputation_

**Patrick:**

_I wouldn’t want to impugn your honor._

And that shouldn’t work on him. It just shouldn’t. But it did. The first documented instance of a human being texting the word ‘impugn.’

**Patrick:**

_Want to just come over here?_

**David:**

_Key question_

_Is Ray home_

**Patrick:**

_No. Entrepreneurs Club of Rural Ontario bowling league night_

_...Do you require a chaperone? Johnny and Moira really cracking down?_

**David:**

_🖕_ _Be there in twenty_

*

“I got together with Rachel during high school,” Patrick said, pouring them both a cup of tea. David would've preferred something a little stronger for this conversation, but he was graciously letting Patrick call the shots. Patrick, who was presently looking all soft beside him on the couch in Ray’s living room, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and sweats, his feet bare.

This ensemble shouldn’t have been a problem for David - he’d dated models, for Christ’s sake. But alas. One glimpse of an exposed ankle was apparently enough to turn him into a repressed Victorian. 

“She asked me out, and I liked her, you know?” 

David nodded. He’d liked girls himself. Dozens of girls. Hundreds, maybe. This was understandable. 

“I mean, she was nice, and funny, and smart. She helped me pass art class.”

A record skipped in David’s mind. “Excuse me, you had trouble passing...art class? _How_?”

“Oh no, I tried. I really did. But when I tell you I can’t draw, please believe me. I can’t draw. Or paint. Or paper mâché, any of it.” 

“Sculpture? Screenprinting? Expressionist basket weaving?” David asked, 

“Not a whole lot of certified teachers for that last one in North Bay.”

“Tragic. Who knows what could have been.”

“I guess we’ll never find out,” Patrick said.

“Mm. What a loss. So, Rachel?” David asked, knocking his knee lightly against one of Patrick’s. 

“Yeah. So we did all the normal stuff, school dances, dates or whatever. We were close. My parents loved her. It was good, comfortable.”

‘Comfortable’ wasn’t a word David would have ever applied to his own adolescent fumblings, but maybe that kind of thing was possible, out here in the real world. 

“But then we were going off to colleges on opposite ends of the province, and we agreed to take a break. Try things out on our own for a while. Circle back to each other, maybe, later on. Except, at school, I didn’t meet anyone else I liked better. Or at all, really?” Patrick said, the statement coming out as more of a question. Definitely not one that David could answer. "I mean, anyone I liked in more than a friend-type way."

Huh.

“And Rachel would call, every once in a while. Even visit, sometimes. And one of those times she showed up, I thought, maybe the reason why I wasn’t meeting anybody I was interested in - maybe it was because I was still hung up on her. Or something.”

Or something. David kept his mouth shut. 

“So we gave it another shot. Long-distance. And that worked. We’d Skype, talk on the phone, and that closeness came back. We knew each other really well. Then, junior year, she was under a lot of pressure with her nursing classes, so she didn’t visit as much.”

“Uh huh. That must’ve been hard,” David said.

“...Yeah."

"So then what happened?"

"She, um. She met someone else. In one of her classes. She told me right away - she was really good about it. And I, I told her it was fine. That she should see where things went with that guy, that she deserved someone who...someone who was -"

Patrick cleared his throat before continuing. "I went back to being single. And that was fine. I was really busy, with school, and work, you know. All that. So it was fine."

"Okay, you've said the word 'fine,' um, more than once," David gently pointed out. 

"...Yeah. I mean, it was. Fine. Jesus, this is getting long. I'm sorry."

"You're good. Go on. If you want to." David didn't want to push, but really wanted to know how this story ended.

At Patrick's skeptical expression, David added, "I asked, remember?"

"If you're sure."

David nodded. 

"I met some other girls, in that gap, just a couple. Nothing serious. That was alright too."

"...Just alright?" David pressed.

"Yeah. I think it isn't my thing? Casual sex. I figured it was just that I didn't know them very well."

"Like you knew Rachel."

"Right," Patrick said to his knees.

"Anyway. We got together again after graduation when we both moved to Sudbury. Sort of a gravitational thing, I think. It was nice. Peaceful."

A peaceful relationship in your mid-twenties. How strange. 

"But there was always something...off? I guess? It was probably my fault. I should've tried harder, to make it better. We broke up and got together a couple more times, and finally, I bought a ring."

"A ring," David parroted back to him. 

"Smart, huh? When a relationship isn't working, a lifetime commitment should do the trick, right?"

"I didn't say that," David insisted.

Patrick smiled wryly at him. "Your face is very expressive."

David did his best to school his features into something resembling disinterested neutrality. This was why he never played poker. His eyebrows were sentient creatures.

"You're right, of course. And thank God I figured that out, or really, my mom did. Shit, that's embarrassing."

"Not embarrassing."

Moira Rose hadn't exactly been a font of maternal wisdom growing up, but she did teach David a thing or two, like which pills mixed best with alcohol and how to care less what people thought. 

"All she said was that for her, deciding to marry my dad was the easiest decision of her life. And that she knew it wasn't the same for me with Rachel."

"Wow," David said quietly. 

"I'd been carrying the ring around for months at that point, just waiting for the right moment. The moment when _I'd_ feel right. But there was never going to be a right moment, because we were just _wrong_ for each other. I broke up with Rachel for good the next day."

"It sounds like you made the right call," David said diplomatically, eyes unwillingly tracking the movement of Patrick's throat as he took a drink of his tea.

Patrick sighed. "I think I did. We still talk sometimes. It's tough. I feel like I didn't give her a good enough reason, for why I couldn't stay with her."

David wanted to touch Patrick. Squeeze his arm reassuringly. Pat his knee, maybe. Something friendly and reassuring? He didn't touch Patrick.

"It didn't work between you two. That's reason enough," David settled on saying instead. 

Patrick gave him a sad half-smile. "So what about you?"

"Oh, let's not do that. I'm sure you already know all about me," David demurred. 

"I didn't google much after I confirmed you weren't wanted for murder, remember?" 

"Ah. Right. Well, in that case, do you have anything stronger than chamomile?"

*

"Somebody's home late," Alexis said in her characteristic sing-song voice to David as soon as he walked through the door to their room. Their joint residence at the motel had an expiration date now, and David was surprised to realize he was going to miss this. Well, not literally _this_ \- not being sassed about his late night whereabouts or coming back to a room that smelled like a potent combination of nail polish and Alexis' coconut deep-conditioning hair mask.

In that moment, David wanted to tell her. About Patrick's arms and his grin, about Rachel - all of it. About how moving in together was probably going to be an epic mistake, and she really should prepare now to execute his last will and testament when he unavoidably died of blue balls. 

"Are you my keeper now?" David replied.

"Um, yes? Since we were like, tiny."

David had always thought of their roles in this relationship a little differently. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"You remember when you were in high school, and you almost over-shaped your eyebrows after Lucius said they were 'a little chunky'? And I hid all your wax and tweezers until you came to your senses and broke up with him?"

A slideshow of hotel concierges, embassies, consulates, bribeable bureaucrats, and the entire housekeeping staff at the Bellagio flashed before his eyes. Alexis had protected his eyebrows. David had protected _Alexis._

"Sure, Alexis. You're my keeper. Anyway. I was at Patrick's. Or really, Ray's. You know what I mean."

Alexis' eyes narrowed, studying him like a bug under glass. 

"Oh _no_ , David," she said, having apparently found what she was looking for in his stupid, readable face. "No no no."

"What."

"Your sad, little feelings! This is bad, this is really bad. You're early! He's like, a full year from figuring out his shit."

"What the fuck are you talking about," David said, aiming for irritated and landing on desperate. 

"He's not ready for you yet!"

"You've been spending too much time with Twyla, clearly. You're not making any goddamn sense. That's my takeaway here." 

"Twyla's a dollface, David, you know that. And she says I have a touch of the Sight." She gave him an awful, exaggerated wink and flicked her hair over her shoulder in emphasis. 

"So you're saying, what exactly?"

"Did I tell you one of the Jazzagals tried to ask Patrick out at the cafe last week? One of the younger ones. Sort of middling-cute, if she wore better shoes, and shaped her bangs? What's her name? Anyway. He went on a whole face journey. Like, knee-jerk flattered, smiling at her, then twitchy and pale. Like he'd had a little stroke? He has no idea."

"No idea _about what_ , Alexis? Spit it out!"

"He likes guys, ok? I've seen him stare at Mutt's ass, and Ted a little, and, even, um, you?"

David sat down heavily on his bed. 

"Only when you're not looking, of course," Alexis continued. "Subtle. But, um, pretty transparent."

"He just got out of a really messy, really long relationship."

"Exactly. He's a lost little duckling right now."

"I _know_ , okay? He's off limits. I'm not going to try anything, alright? We're just friends. Friends who are...moving in together."

"He needs a friend, I think. But poor you! Ugh! You'll have to see him with, like, adorable bedhead in the mornings, and in a little teeny tiny towel after a shower, and all sweaty from a run, and at night, maybe you'll even hear him through the walls when he -"

"I'll be fine."

"Sure. You'll be fine," Alexis replied. "Totally fine."

David shut himself into the bathroom, and searched on his phone for the largest bath towels the internet had to offer.

*

The following night, David was unwinding with a book and a glass of wine in bed after a long shift at Blouse Barn, a reward to himself for finalizing the mood board for the store's upcoming autumn collection. From the bedside table, his phone buzzed.

**Patrick:**

_Can you meet me at Ronnie's tomorrow morning? She's got some scratch-and-dent kitchen cabinets she said we could have at cost. I'm borrowing Ray's minivan, but need some help loading them up._

**David:**

_And I'm the right person for that job_

**Patrick:**

_Was that a question? If so, yes._

**David:**

_Um_

**Patrick:**

_David, I've seen your arms. You'll be fine._

David dropped his phone on the motel room floor in surprise. 

**Patrick:**

_I just meant_

_You have strong arms_

_I mean, they're fine_

_Not_ **_fine_ ** _, just, you know_

_You can help me lift cabinets_

_That's all_

_Can you come tomorrow_

"Ew, David, why does your face look like that?" Alexis asked from where she was sitting on her bed, distractedly paging through an ancient magazine she'd stolen from the motel's office.

"My face doesn't look like anything," David said, still rereading Patrick's string of texts and smiling like a maniac.

**David:**

10:00 AM?

💪

**Patrick:**

_Maybe I'll just ask Stevie_

**David:**

_Stevie has noodle arms_

_I want to do it_

**Patrick:**

_Is this what it takes?_

_An accidental compliment, and you're at my beck and call?_

**David:**

_I don't know, let's find out_

"Ugh, David!" Alexis said, firing a hair tie at him from across the room with startling precision. "Who are you texting, anyway?"

"Nobody."

"Oh my God, it's Patrick, isn't it? You're being his friend, remember? And friends don't make _that_ kind of face while texting! Give me your phone."

David held it out of her reach as it beeped, signaling a reply from Patrick that he was in a bit of a rush to read. 

Alexis' boots gave her an edge, and she plucked the phone out of his hand. She quickly entered his passcode. 

"Uh, why do you know my - whatever. Of course you do."

"Oh. Well, he started it." She handed his phone back to him.

**Patrick:**

_See you at 10:00_   
  



	2. Chapter 2

Moving day was an unmitigated disaster. Or rather, it was going perfectly, but David was seriously underprepared for the wild eroticism involved in watching Patrick load a U-haul trailer like a 3D game of Tetris. The amount of care Patrick was taking with all of his possessions shouldn't have made David as hard as a steel beam, but David was learning a lot about himself and developing some surprising kinks along the way. Thank God for drop-crotch pants.

"Hey Patrick? How're you doing?" David asked, interrupting what appeared to be a moment of deep concentration as Patrick adjusted the last box or four into the trailer. "Do you want any sparkling water? One of Alexis' yogurts, maybe? I could see if the motel office has tea..."

"No, I'm good. We're just about done here," Patrick said. "And after, you're going to help me pick up that dinette set from Twyla's cousin's ex-stepmom, right?"

"Of course," David replied. "And no disrespect to Twyla or her very extended family, but we are meeting her in a public place, right?" 

"Sort of. In the junkyard at the southern end of town," Patrick replied, straight faced. "The one with all the Rottweilers."

"Um."

"Kidding. We're meeting behind the cafe." 

After the Blouse Barn’s recent legal settlement with Blouse Barn Australia, it had taken all of David’s limited self-control not to spend all of his cut of the windfall on furnishing the new apartment. Instead, he and Patrick had gone a little lower brow. Over the last couple of weeks, they'd scored a couple of spare end tables from Ronnie, an armchair that David was willing to charitably call 'vintage' from Gwen's yard sale, and a shelf/bookcase Wendy gifted to him during her store’s Going Out of Business Sale. 

While David had graciously accepted the low prices and occasional out-and-out charity of their neighbors, he'd sprung for one new thing - a mattress. Nothing crazy, just one of the better-reviewed foam ones from an online store that was delivered in a worryingly narrow box this morning. When Patrick had helped him carry it up the stairs, David had lost a little remaining self-respect when he inwardly compared Patrick to a Greco-Roman statue of some kind of athletically-gifted youth. Maybe a discus thrower. Discus was sexy, right? 

*

Dinette set retrieved, boxes unloaded, celebratory pizza consumed, David was surprised by an unexpected knock at the door. 

Stevie. 

“Help me get some shit out of the trunk, k?” Stevie said, tugging him into the stairwell. David allowed himself to be pulled. He’d always been a little too comfortable with being lightly manhandled. 

Stevie banged on the trunk’s lid to release the hatch. Once the dust cleared, David could make out some ancient-looking boxes that didn’t exactly announce their contents. 

“Brought you some dishes.”

“Um, thank you, and may I ask, from where?”

“I honestly have no idea. Found them in a storage closet at the motel, and my lifestyle doesn’t really require formal servingware, so I thought -”

“While I’m flattered you thought of us, I feel obliged to inform you that Patrick very nearly accepted  _ used _ bedding from Jocelyn and Roland. If I hadn’t intervened...”

They both shuddered in horror. 

“So all I’m saying is, I don’t see a lot of need for gravy bowls and dessert forks in our immediate future,” David added. 

“I may have exaggerated the grandeur of these dishes. It’s plates and bowls, David. Some mismatched cutlery. Sounds about your level,” Stevie said, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Don’t mock me in my impoverished state.”

“I’d never," Stevie said. "May I also point out - you’re using a lot of ‘us’ and ‘our’ language.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying.”

"Things seem to be going well, with you and Patrick,” Stevie said, throwing him a sidelong glance. “Your slow play seems to be working."

"There's no slow play! I'm not playing anything. I'm his friend," David said, haughtily. 

"Oh no. It's gotten worse, hasn't it," Stevie said. The lack of immediate mocking was concerning.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Anyway, I'll just...take these." David scooped up more than an advisable number of boxes and made for the door.

"I'll help."

"You've helped enough. Thanks for the haunted dishes."

"Best wishes," Stevie replied. 

"Chilliest regards," David said, before noting Stevie's menacingly raised eyebrow and thinking better of it. "Warmest. Fucking fine. Warmest regards."

"Have a good night with your  _ friend _ ," Stevie called out of her driver's side window as she drove away. 

*

Upstairs, David unpacked the dishes. He’d be keeping the acceptably unadorned Corelle and the silverware with a disproportionate number of butter knives. However, the incomplete china set with a 'Cats on Acid' motif would be exiled to the pile of items to donate and/or burn and bury in the parking lot.

He could hear Patrick unpacking in his own room, and David figured this was as good a time as any to commune with his new mattress. He carefully unboxed it, and laid it out on the floor in the middle of the room. He stepped back. This couldn't be right. It looked like Twyla's deflated attempt at a souffle last Christmas. No way was this 11 inches of breathable foam, zoned support, and an enhanced edge substructure. He checked the included instructions. 

‘Let your new mattress expand for 24 hours before use.  **WARNING: Using the mattress before the 24 hour expansion period is complete will void the product warranty and permanently damage the structural integrity of the foam.** ’

Well, shit. 

“Hey, Patrick?” David called. 

“Yeah?” Patrick said, coming into the room. 

“You don’t happen to have a conveniently hidden futon, air mattress, or pile of sleeping bags, do you?” David asked, hopefully. 

“Uh, no. Something wrong with your bed?” Patrick eyed the sad, sad mattress.

“It’s perfect, why do you ask?” David said, sinking to the floor in a heap. “Apparently it needs 24 hours to, like,  _ become _ a bed. Right now it’s definitely something less than a bed.”

Patrick nudged the mattress with his foot. “You can bunk with me. It’s not memory foam, but...”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly. I can...I can go back to the motel, or something.”

“Not seeing a whole lot of options for the ‘or something,’ David. And you don’t have to go back to the motel - it’s fine. Really.”

“Thank God, because Alexis said she was planning on celebrating my departure with Blake Lively’s DIY tomato ketchup-based hair toner recipe, and I really don’t want to see that.”

Patrick laughed. “I’m about ready to finish up - it’s been a long day. Just let yourself in whenever."

"Alright, I'll just. I'll just do that. Thanks. Okay. Goodnight, Patrick." 

"Goodnight, David."

And with that, he was gone, and David was free to silently berate himself for his choices. Exposure to Alexis' ketchupy murder hair would have been a lesser torture compared to sharing a bed with the person he currently had a little bit of a fixation on. And Patrick had been so cavalier about it, which wasn't a good sign. David could've gone for a blush, a stutter - some small indication that Patrick was the slightest bit  _ bothered _ about David being within horizontal touching distance. But no. This was just casual, platonic, bedsharing-out-of-necessity. Patrick taking one for the team. Doing him a solid.  _ Not that kind of solid, _ David told his dumbass dick.

He could shower first, jerk off maybe? But then he'd have damp hair in Patrick's bed, which was just unallowable, and rude. In here, then? But where? Sitting on the fucking floor like a convict in a 19th century prison? Worse still. His dick would just have to deal. Wait, he should text Stevie. He could crash at her house, and definitely not share a bed with Patrick. Of course. 

**David:**

_ Help _

**Stevie:**

_ Are you presently being murdered, because if not, I’m on the prowl at Wobbly Elm sooo _

**David:**

_ Can I sleep at your place _

**Stevie:**

_ NO _

_ I need that bed _

_ Hopefully _

_ And you have your own! You texted me about it like 800 times _

_ Mattress made out of space foam or something _

David let his head thunk back against the wall behind him. 

**David:**

_ My bed is...broken _

**Stevie:**

_ Wow you work fast. Patrick that good, eh? _

**David:**

_ HEY  _

_ NO _

_ I mean _

_ He probably would be _

_ But no _

_ Nevermind _

_ Good luck tonight _

**Stevie:**

_ I’m not the one who needs luck _

David threw his phone onto the problem-causing bed. He  changed into his most restrictive boxer briefs and his thickest sleep pants. If only he still owned a straight jacket to prevent his hands from wandering. He took a deep breath before easing open Patrick's bedroom door. 

Patrick’s shape was silhouetted in the soft moonlight—or maybe that was just David’s idiot brain talking. Regardless, he appeared to be asleep, curled up on the far side of the bed. Ah, so David would be sleeping nearest the door then, hm. Not his personal preference, but it seemed a bridge too far to wake him up so that Patrick could sleep on the other side and thus prevent David from being murdered first in the (admittedly unlikely) event of a home invasion. David consoled himself with the less-than-ideal sleeping positioning by reminding himself that Patrick was the kind of person who probably kept a baseball bat under the bed and would have no problem knocking any intruder unconscious with a single decisive swing. This should not have been a hot image. But. 

Before David could perseverate any further on the fantasy potential of Patrick as a defender of their nearly-barren apartment and David’s personal safety, he climbed into bed. Facing the door. Just in case. 

*

Two hours later, he was about ready to give up on the mattress’ threat of a voided warranty and structurally damaged foam, because he was dying. Literally dying. Patrick had rolled over, and his hand was millimeters away from David’s arm. He could feel it. Radiating. Threateningly warm and inviting. To make matters worse, Patrick would occasionally sigh into the quiet air of the darkened room, an intimate sound that David desperately wished he could unhear, so that he wouldn’t replay it in his dreams when he somehow, some way, fell asleep. Patrick shifted again, his bare toes brushing the back of David’s calf. Which was now on fire. Jesus, David should’ve jerked off before coming in here. 

“You awake?” Patrick murmured, voice sleep-thick. 

“No.”

“Couldn’t answer if you were asleep.”

David rolled his eyes and tried to gauge whether he was imagining that he could feel Patrick’s breath on the back of his neck. “You caught me.”

“Go to sleep. I won’t let any robbers getcha. You wanna sleep in my spot instead?”

David froze. How did he know? Did David just  _ project _ his most neurotic fears?

Patrick chuckled, tugging on his shirtsleeve as though that was a normal thing normal people did when they were normally, platonically, in bed together. 

“I’m fine.”

“Come on, I can switch,” Patrick said, clearly unaware of the direction David’s brain had flown off to at the mention of  _ switching _ . 

"...Okay."

David moved to get out of bed and walk around to the other side, but Patrick had other plans. Before David could process what was happening, Patrick was  _ crawling over him _ like a goddamn maniac, his knees briefly bracketing David's hips, and David was dying. For real this time. Dead. Patrick, now on the door-side of the bed, rolled away from him, resuming his tucked position from earlier. 

"Better?" Patrick asked.

"Much," David said in a strangled voice. It was not, in fact, better. 

“G’night, David.”

Even though a certain part of his body was now very, very awake, he couldn’t help but be soothed by the steady rhythm of Patrick’s breathing. That, and the knowledge that Patrick, his baseball bat, and confident, wholesome competence would protect him from anything the night could throw at him. 

*

David awoke hours later to Patrick’s hand, heavy on his hip. Now David was sure he could feel Patrick’s breath on his neck - he wasn’t imagining it. Muscle memory, obviously left over from Patrick’s years with a live-in girlfriend. That was all this was. David was inheriting the unconscious impulses of a ghost relationship. It made him a little sick, actually. He had to leave. 

Patrick’s grip tightened on his hip for a moment, and he fucking  _ nuzzled _ his face between David’s shoulder blades. David carefully eased himself away from Patrick’s grasp and slid out of bed. He quietly clicked the door shut, resting his forehead for a moment against the smooth wood, skillfully sanded, primed, and painted by Patrick’s careful hands a couple of weeks ago. David slept the rest of the night curled up in Gwen’s armchair. 

*

The morning sun poured through the east-facing living room windows and bored directly into David’s closed eyelids. 

“You want any breakfast?” a voice asked. It took David a minute to orient himself within the confines of space and time enough to realize that the voice belonged to Patrick. 

"Hrmgeph," David eloquently replied. 

"Okay, no Eggs Benedict for you then."

David's ears perked up, and he emerged from the nest he'd built in the armchair just enough to really look at Patrick, this mysterious unicorn who could do things like poach eggs, a skill which made David more than a little weak in the knees.

“Yes, please,” David said. Was that really what his own voice sounded like? Throaty and ridiculous? Jesus. “Wake me when they’re ready?”

Patrick huffed a laugh. 

David came to consciousness again when Patrick set a plate down on the end table beside David’s armchair habitat. David blinked up at him. Patrick’s expression was warm and amused. 

“So I take it I snored last night?” Patrick said.

“Oh. No, you were fine.”

“But you just prefer sleeping semi-upright. Got it.”

“No, I just. Um.” 

Patrick’s smile dropped a little.

“Oh - did I - sorry. I haven’t slept with anyone since Rachel. I mean. Slept  _ next to _ anyone _ ,  _ obviously. I just meant, I’m sorry, if I - did I do something?”

“No, nothing.” David plastered on a smile. “Just a little bit of a blanket hog. No problem.”

Patrick scratched at the back of his neck, looking bashful. “Well, I hope the breakfast makes up for it?”

“Just letting you know,” David said, taking a large bite of Hollandaise-coated deliciousness. “You’re setting a dangerous precedent, if your apologies typically come in breakfast form. My expectations going forward are now through the roof.”

“What makes you think you aren’t going to be the one doing the majority of the apologizing? What do you plan to do for me?” Patrick said, crossing his arms and grinning. 

_ Oh, there’s so much I could do for you. _

“I’ll...figure something out,” David managed to say. 

“Well, as you said. I’ve set the bar high,” Patrick said, cockiness clearly back in full effect. 

David’s phone chirped, and he was grateful for the interruption. 

**Stevie:**

_ Party at Mutt’s barn tonight _

_ Plenty of booze _

_ Mutt makes decent moonshine in his tub _

_ You in? _

_ Bring Patrick _

**David:**

_ I’ll be there _

_ Not bringing Patrick _

_ I need to meet somebody and get laid _

_ Thoroughly, thoroughly laid _

**Stevie:**

_ Too late _

_ Already invited him _

“So are you going to this party at Mutt’s?” Patrick asked from the kitchen. 

Goddammit. David let his head fall into his hands. He and his dick were doomed.

*

_ Or maybe not so doomed after all _ , David thought to himself when he met Jake. Tall, very attractive Jake who called him ‘handsome’ and probably didn’t know how to poach an egg but who at least seemed into him. 

David glanced across the barn, eyes landing on Patrick, who was currently laughing with Twyla and a couple other townies David vaguely recognized but couldn’t name. 

“Are you...here with someone?” Jake asked, bringing David’s focus back to him. 

“I am,” David said automatically. “But just my roommate. And I’m not here, like,  _ with  _ him. We’re not together, definitely not.”

Jake nodded. “You wanna get some air?”

David looked back over at Patrick, whose head was thrown back in a laugh at something Twyla was saying, her hand around his waist. Great. That was great. Twyla - alright. Made sense. Twyla was nice, and Patrick was, well, not  _ nice _ , exactly? He was kind of nice, but kind of a troll, and David liked him so, so much.

“That’s okay, actually. I should probably go find my, um, my -”

“Your roommate?” Jake prompted, looking a little disappointed. David was disappointed too. But he had no one to blame but himself. “Well, maybe some other time then,” Jake added, squeezing David’s arm and heading over to the drinks table on the other side of the room. 

"Nice one, David," Stevie said, appearing at his side. 

David did a double take. "Well, you look very nice." 

"Thank you. This is my most effective dress."

"A little offended that I didn't get the Stevie-In-A-Dress experience back when we were, when we were -"

"Fuck you very much," Stevie replied with narrowed eyes.

"Come on, you know how hot you are," David said, rolling his eyes. "Whether in an effective dress or plaid." 

"Aw. Well now I feel bad, mocking your total lack of game with Jake."

"You feel bad?"

"No. You're spoken for. You don't need Jake."

"I am definitely  _ not _ spoken for. That's the whole problem."

Just then, Patrick made his way over to them. He was the most Canadian drunk, stopping a half-dozen times to apologize to the people he'd lightly bumped into. 

"This party's great," Patrick said with a detectable slur, slinging an arm around both David and Stevie's shoulders. “Thanks for inviting me, Stevie,” Patrick said, attempting to kiss her on the cheek and landing in her hair instead. 

Stevie batted him away. “Okay, you’re very drunk, and while I’d love to stay and explore that, there’s a tall drink of dumb but available water over there with my name on it,” she said, pointing subtly at Jake.

"Get it, Stevie!" Patrick said loudly, pumping a fist in the air.

“I should take you home,” David said to Patrick, trying not to stumble under the unsteady force of Patrick’s grip on his shoulder. “Before you get yourself in trouble.”

“ _ Yeah _ you should! Wait, I mean, literally, you should. To our apartment. That we both live in,” Patrick blinked at him. “What was I saying?”

“Okay, I think you’ve had enough of Mutt’s moonshine,” David said, starting the stumbling journey toward the barn door. “Did you get into Stevie’s cousin’s weed too?”

“I don’t think so, but I bummed a clove cigarette off of Twyla. Can cloves get you high?”

“Oh my God, Patrick.”

“Hey, aren’t those your parents?” Patrick said, tugging David to a stop in the middle of the improvised dance floor. 

Patrick pulled some residual sobriety out of his ass and gracefully greeted David’s parents. He then politely excused himself back to the corner where Twyla and Stevie’s cousins were congregating and doing shots out of a pitcher filled with something neon-hued. 

After a confusing and sweetly love-infused dance with his parents and sister, David pulled a half-lidded and affectionate Patrick out the door and toward Patrick’s car. He poured Patrick into the passenger seat after fishing the keys out of Patrick’s coat pocket.

“You have really nice hair, David. How do you get it so, so -” Patrick gestured vaguely at the top of his own head before reaching over and fucking  _ running his fingers  _ through David’s hair as David was trying (and failing) to start the car.

David shivered and pulled the car out of the field-slash-parking lot. 

“I don’t know, good product?” David replied absent-mindedly. 

“That’s not it. It’s really, really nice.” He was still touching David’s hair. And David should stop him. He really should. 

“What else is...nice...about me?” David heard himself ask instead. God, he was an asshole.

Patrick laughed, sinking lower in his seat. “You’re funny. And pretty. Is that weird to say?”

David bit back a grin. “Nope. Not weird. So I’m pretty?”

“Very pretty.” Patrick stared at him with the guilelessness of the very drunk. “Didn’t you know?”

“No, I’m completely ignorant. You should probably explain.” David was an asshole. But Patrick, he was almost sure, wouldn’t remember this. 

“Like your eyes, those are good. Dark and...and pretty.”

Patrick’s vocabulary left something to be desired, but still. He’d take it. 

David pulled the car around to the parking lot at the back of their building. 

“Alright, let’s get you inside,” David said. 

“You’re a good friend, Ravid Dose,” Patrick slurred, clinging to David’s shoulder as they zig zagged up the stairs. David carefully deposited Patrick in a boneless heap onto his bed. Patrick flopped onto his back, and David sat on the edge beside him. He pulled Patrick’s feet into his lap and untied his shoes, setting them on the floor beside the bed. He rolled Patrick over to his side so he wouldn’t throw up and die in his sleep, then went to get him some water and ibuprofen from the kitchen.

When he returned, he placed the water and meds on Patrick’s bedside table, trying not to wake him. David turned to go. His work here was done, and he had no defensible reason to linger. 

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Patrick said quietly. David paused in the doorway, hand on the doorframe. “Can you tell me what I’m supposed to do next?”

“I don’t think any of us know what we’re doing,” David replied without turning around. Lord knows he didn’t. “But maybe realizing that is the first step.”

“Hope so,” Patrick said, voice muffled by the pillow. “Maybe we can figure it out together.”

That stopped David up short. 

“Goodnight, Patrick,” David said softly, before clicking the door shut behind him.

*

In the morning, David woke up more comfortable than he had in years, rewarded for his patience with his fully-expanded new mattress. The apartment was quiet - Patrick must still be asleep. 

David couldn’t expect Eggs Benedict today, not unless he wanted to make them himself. And Patrick would probably appreciate him not burning down their apartment after they’d both put so much work into it. Toast, on the other hand, he could manage. 

He tapped on Patrick’s door. An inarticulate groan came from the other side. 

“Patrick? You alive?” 

Another groan, that sounded a little like ‘no.’

“Just in case you are in fact still living, I made you some toast. I’ll...leave it here.”

Before he could set the toast on the floor and retreat to his room, Patrick opened the door, just a crack, one bleary eye visible. 

“Thanks,” Patrick said, voice low and scratchy and doing unmentionable things to David. “Did I do anything stupid last night? How’d I get back here?”

Ah, so the drunken compliments and hair stroking would be David’s little secret after all. Fantastic.

“No, besides maybe making friends with some of Stevie’s sketchier relatives. Might have to change your name now. I’ve got some friends in witness protection - you’ll be fine.”

Patrick smiled weakly at him. “You said something about toast?”

David handed him the plate. “You want any company?” he asked, immediately grimacing. Nobody wanted company during a hangover. 

“Sure, yeah. Come on in.” Except Patrick, apparently. “I’m afraid I’m a bit low on seating options. Bed okay?”

David nodded, perching on the end of the mattress while Patrick settled in against the pillows. 

“That looks uncomfortable,” Patrick said. “You can sit up here by me. You’ve already slept in my bed, remember?”

_ Didn’t actually do that much sleeping _ , David thought to himself, the memory of Patrick’s accidental snuggling still fresh in his mind. David made an attempt to gracefully crawl up the mattress and get himself situated next to him. 

Patrick took a bite of toast, then asked, “So with the Blouse Barn closed, what do you think you’ll do next?”

“I have no fucking clue.” David had thought about it, of course he had, but so far, he’d come up empty in the ideas department. 

“Would you want another job like that - some kind of retail? Seemed like you kind of enjoyed it.”

“I mean, maybe? But where? If you hadn’t noticed, this town has exactly one store, which we live above, plus that flower shop by Town Hall that’s only open on the summer solstice or whatever. Probably not much opportunity for advancement there. Then there’s that vape shop in between here and Elmdale - no, thank you.”

Patrick laughed. “Yeah, can’t really see you fitting in with the vaping crowd.”

“What are my other options, let’s see. The bridal boutique, the one in a literal barn? So, what, I’d trade a metaphorically barn-named store for a literal barn? No. And I’ve already worked a shift at the Elmdale Stop and Shop that was less than a raging success, so -”

“Wait, you were a grocery bagger?” Patrick asked him, grinning and incredulous. 

“For like literally twenty minutes, until my dad ruined it.”

“Okay, so if there aren’t any great options currently in existence, what about opening your own place? Have you thought about that?”

Huh. That was an idea.

*

When Patrick had left for an afternoon shift at Ray’s, David did a little daydreaming. He could see a hazy outline in his mind: his own store. Something beautiful, with greenery and natural light. Somewhere people could get what they needed, especially because  _ he  _ knew what people needed, usually better than they did. 

He searched for local commercial real estate listings on his phone. Only one within a twenty mile radius, and fuck him, it was a listing for a ‘200 Square Foot Private Executive Office Space’ in Bob’s Garage. So the idea was a nonstarter, then. If he was going to open his own business _ — _ a big if—he’d want to live near it. Oh well. Maybe he’d just put a pin in this idea for later. 

Except ‘later’ turned out to be the remainder of the entire afternoon. By the time Patrick returned from work, David had filled half of a fresh notebook with drawings, a brainstormed list of possible products the store could carry, and not less than thirty-five name concepts. David jumped when he realized Patrick was looking over his shoulder, so focused was he on sketching an idea for some elegant ladder shelving, filled with locally-grown plants in little bucket planters, an homage to his agrarian surroundings. 

“Woah, what’s this?” Patrick asked. 

David shut the notebook. “Nothing. Just doodling. Doodling nothing.”

“That looked pretty - I didn’t know you could draw.”

“There are a lot of things I can do that you don’t know about,” David retorted before he could think better of it. 

Patrick blushed, a faint pink tint to his cheeks. “I’m sure that’s true.”

David sighed, reopening the notebook, and handing it to Patrick. 

“I thought about what you said. About me opening my own place?”

“Yeah?” Patrick said, flipping through the pages and landing on the list of name ideas. “Huh. ‘Rose Apothecary.’ I like that one.”

David did too. He’d even drafted a couple logos for that particular name.

Patrick passed his notebook back to him. “I’d offer to help you work out some logistics, maybe start a few spreadsheets, just for fun?” 

David tried not to look too skeptical at the idea of ‘fun spreadsheets.’

Patrick continued. “But I’m actually going to tryouts for the Gwen’s baseball team tonight - she said I had ‘catcher’s legs’ when I saw her at the cafe last week. Not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment, but I thought it could be fun.”

“Ah, sports. Cool. Great. Have a good time. Break a leg—that’s the expression, right?” David said.

“Uh, I think that’s limited to theater. But thanks. See you later then?”

“Mmhmm.” David was already distracted, focused on tracing out a stylized floorplan for a building that didn’t technically exist.

*

It was late when Patrick returned. David was already in bed, his notebook braced against his knees, an olfactory moodboard taking shape of how he wanted his dream store to smell. 

Twenty minutes later, he could hear through their shared wall that Patrick was watching something. David knew it had been a mistake to hire an HVAC technician recommended by  _ Roland _ . The guy had clearly placed the vents too close together on the same, shared wall, and David could hear what Patrick was watching with an uncomfortable degree of clarity. It wasn’t anything he immediately recognized. It sounded like women giggling. Huh. 

The giggling turned to breathy but clearly audible moans, and David realized what was happening.  _ Shit _ . He looked around for his headphones - he needed to give Patrick some semblance of privacy for what was obviously occurring on the other side of the wall, but he quickly remembered they were still packed in one of the boxes out in the living room. Fuck. Fuck fuckity fuck. 

The video switched. This time, David could hear a man’s voice, along with a woman’s. Two women, maybe. Along with an occasional smack. Spanking? Then David heard another sound - the squelch of what David guessed was cheap, jelly lube. Then what was unmistakably the sound of a hand, Patrick’s hand, on...oh, God.

David realized he was holding his breath. The audio from the video cut out, and the sound of Patrick’s hand on his dick stopped. What was wrong? David had a theory. A minute or two later, sound started up again. Two men, talking. Then the sound of wet, theatrical kissing, and the first small, quiet groan that David knew, he  _ knew,  _ wasn’t from the tinny speakers of Patrick’s crappy Dell laptop. 

Oh fuck. David realized that his right hand, of its own volition, had started lightly tracing his dick where it was tenting his sleep pants. Shit. That would be wrong, wouldn’t it? He shouldn’t get off to this, he really shouldn’t. This was Patrick’s private exploration of his sexuality. Good for him. David was just an innocent bystander. An accidental auditory witness. He set his notebook to the side, then clenched his hands in the sheets to stop from touching himself. 

_ Patrick would never know _ , the very horny devil on his shoulder whispered. His dick throbbed in his pants, and he tried to remember where he’d put his silicone lube. Somewhere inaccessible, probably. That was for the best. 

Except now, Patrick was really going at it. The slick sounds traveling through from the other side of the wall were coming at a steady rhythm now, as a chorus of slapping skin filled the air, punctuated occasionally by one of two very male voices. David hoped that Patrick had found a good video. One where the top really took his time prepping the bottom. Savored it. Maybe rimmed him a little first. That’s what David would do, had done before. He always took care of the person he was fucking, made it good for them. He’d make it so good for Patrick. He would - he would...

When David looked down, he saw that a wet spot had appeared in the fabric of his pants, and he realized that he didn’t need lube if he wanted to sin a little here. He wouldn’t need anything at all. Just his own hand and for the video Patrick was watching to go on maybe thirty seconds longer. 

He silently shimmied his pants down to his knees, and spread the wetness from his leaking dick down the shaft as quietly as he could. He bit back a moan - it had been a while. 

_ “That’s good, you like it like that, don’t you?”  _ one of the voices in the video said roughly. The sound of Patrick’s hand on his dick was faster now, his quick breaths and bitten-back moans clear as a bell, and David was so, so hard. 

_ “Gonna paint you with my come, you want that?”  _ the voice asked. Okay, well, consent was important. That’s good. 

_ “Yeah, yeah, give it to me - come on.” _

Then David’s brain whited out as he heard the unmistakable sound of what Patrick sounded like when he came. He sounded  _ gorgeous _ . David bit his lip as his orgasm crested too, swallowing down a shout and nearly hitting his own chin with a thick spurt of come. He shuddered through the aftershocks, and it was almost like he wasn’t alone. It was almost like - like they were doing this together.  _ Fuck _ , David wanted that. His mind quickly sketched out an impossible fantasy of knocking on Patrick’s door. Patrick would say ‘come in,’ in a fucked-out, low voice, and David would. He’d see Patrick, covered in come, still breathing hard, and then they’d kiss, and - 

Instead, he awkwardly pulled his now-filthy shirt over his head and wiped himself down before tossing it in the general direction of the floor, with a promise to give it a loving hand-wash first thing tomorrow morning. 

God, he was so, so screwed. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, [this_is_not_nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/pseuds/this_is_not_nothing), where would I beeeee without yoooooou.
> 
> Also a huge thank you to Missgeevious, *clickety clackety*
> 
> And to the entirety of the Rosebudd, I'm very very sorry for all the farming jokes lately.

The lingering, bone-deep satisfaction of last night's semi-illicit orgasm faded in the harsh morning light as David faced the facts. Priority one: He needed to wash his poor, defiled shirt. Priority 2: He needed to find his fucking headphones. Better to be prepared in case Patrick was planning on a self-guided encore of sexual exploration tonight. David performed his morning ablutions and headed into the living room. 

“Hey, David,” Patrick greeted him distractedly from the corner of the room. He was surrounded by a veritable treasure trove of cords and technological detritus, next to a tipped over box labeled, concerningly, ‘ _Cords and Misc Shit.'_

"Hey, Patrick - what are you looking for?"

Patrick tossed a surge protector and what looked like an ancient, first-generation cell phone charger onto the rug next to him. He ran a hand through his hair in visible frustration. 

"Just my damn headphones. Rachel bought me some nice ones a couple Christmases ago, and I can't find them anywhere. I kind of...packed in a hurry."

David peered over his head at the remaining contents of the box. 

"Well, with organizational skills like that..."

Patrick tossed a computer mouse at him, a wry smirk at the corner of his mouth. David held his hands up in surrender. 

"Alright, alright. You can borrow mine. Let me just -" David stepped carefully around the landmines of technological eras past and over to a small box of his own, labeled ' _Electronics: A - L_.' The headphones were right at his fingertips when he opened the box. 

"You _alphabetized_ the contents of your moving boxes? Patrick asked skeptically, as though David was the crazy one here. But when David looked at him, he was surprised by the sincerely impressed expression on Patrick's face.

“Obviously. Here you go.” He tossed Patrick the headphones. Because he was an unrepentant asshole, he added, “So are you going on a run or something? Need to catch up on all the hot goss on Ray’s podcast?”

Patrick turned away from him, gathering up the electronic odds and ends strewn about the floor and putting them back in the box. “Um, I found this documentary series last night, and wanted to...try out a little more of it tonight.”

David couldn’t help himself. “Oh yeah? What’s it about? Maybe we could watch it together.”

Patrick looked up at him with the expression of a deer about to meet its maker on a rural highway. 

“You wouldn’t like it. It’s about...history.”

“I like history. What makes you think I wouldn’t like history?” David prodded, genuinely a little offended. 

“Um, it’s about the history of...baseball. Eighteen hours long. It’s a Ken Burns production.”

“Wow. Sounds fun. And thorough. Very, um, educational.”

“It will be, I think.” Patrick’s ears were fully red now. 

This was good. This was better. Patrick would be able to explore this side of himself without an inadvertent audience. While David would give all the money he didn’t have for a front row, fully obstructed view of Patrick’s sexual awakening via the opportunely placed vent between their rooms, his conscience wouldn’t allow a repeat. And anyway, just the vague awareness of what Patrick was doing on the other side of the wall would be enough to keep David's mind, and his right hand, occupied for months. 

“Well, enjoy your documentary,” David said. 

“Oh, I’m not, um, right now? It’s just something I watch at...night. Before I go to sleep.”

“Uh huh. I hope it's...good. For you.” David tried and failed to keep his imagination at an appropriate rating for nine o’clock in the morning on a weekday. He could feel his mouth threatening to form an irrepressible grin, so he turned away from Patrick's blushing face and headed for the kitchen.

“You’re sure I can borrow these?” Patrick called.

“My pleasure,” David heard himself say, as he gathered his coffee supplies from the cupboard. _'My pleasure.'_ Yikes, out of context. But _in context_ , David’s headphones were facilitating something glorious. A transformation. A metamorphosis. 

Just when the image of Patrick as a sexually-actualized butterfly entered his mind, the timer for his french press beeped. His thoughts could never be trusted before ten o’clock in the morning. 

*

At a loss for what to do with his day once Patrick and his stupidly attractive face and generally distracting presence had left for work, David meandered down to the general store below to see if they happened to carry any earbuds to replace the ones he’d loaned Patrick. If past experience was any indication, he expected he would find them between the expired salad dressing and the dusty, out-of-season holiday decorations. He may have been feeling extra judgy of the store and its owners this morning, emboldened by his notebook chock-full of beautiful ideas for how he’d do literally everything better, if given the chance. 

He was so deep into his head about whether or not his dream store would carry perishables that he literally jumped when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around, coming face-to-face with Lydia, the store’s sweet but inept owner. 

“Oh David, it’s the saddest thing.”

“Hm?” he replied, trying to sound both polite and vaguely busy so that she would maybe keep it brief. 

“We’re going out of business. Everything is 40% off. But for you, dear,” she eyed the earbuds and two boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in his hands, “50%.”

“Thanks so much. And I’m so sorry to hear the news. When...is the store’s last day?”

“Thursday. It’s for the best, I guess. My daughter has been trying to get me to come down to Florida with her and Greg for the last five years - you remember Greg, of course.” 

“Mmhm. Greg.” David did not, in fact, remember Greg. He was, however, rapidly reformulating his opinion of this space. Minus the overcrowded shelves, completely unthemed inventory, and tragic attempts at wall art...

He hurriedly paid for his purchases, giving Lydia best wishes for her upcoming move to Florida. He even threw in a platitude about God opening a window every time he closes a door, which made Lydia cry and give him an extra 10% off. 

As soon as he was back in the apartment and pouring himself a bowl of cereal, he texted Patrick. 

**David:**

_Patrick!_

**Patrick:**

_Yes, David?_

**David:**

_You'll never guess_

**Patrick:**

_This is fun_

_It's not as if I'm at work right now_

**David:**

_Fine I'll text Stevie instead_

**Patrick:**

_What will I never guess?_

**David:**

_The general store is closing_

**Patrick:**

_Finally got busted by the health department for improperly stored breakfast cereal? Remember the rat poison?_

Fuck, David had forgotten about that. He mournfully dumped his cereal into the trash. 

**David:**

_Lydia is moving to Florida_

**Patrick:**

_Finally listening to her daughter and Greg, huh_

**David:**

_How the fuck do you know about Greg_

**Patrick:**

_It's called listening, David_

David cringed. If only Patrick knew how much _listening_ David had done recently. 

**David:**

_Want to break out the spreadsheets tonight_

_If you're not too busy_

_With your baseball show_

**Patrick:**

_No, yeah I'll help_

**David:**

_'no, yeah'_

_I don't know what that means_

**Patrick:**

_It's polite-speak for 'there's nothing I'd rather do than help you with your spreadsheets'_

**David:**

_Well. If you already have other plans..._

**Patrick:**

_I don't_

_See you tonight_

*

Over beer and an ill-advised carry-out order of the cafe’s Wednesday night meatloaf, Patrick helped him convert his notes, drawings, and daydreams into something resembling an actual business plan. David was quickly realizing, with some degree of alarm, he’d never actually seen one before. This was concerning, considering that he had previously run what he thought were _several_ successful businesses.

Something else he’d never seen before was a pivot table. When he saw his theoretical product list tabulated and reported out in such an official, business-y looking way, he had to excuse himself to the kitchen to collect his runaway feelings for a moment, pretending to fetch another beer for each of them. The prices were all placeholders, the product names all imaginary, but still. This was something. David could feel it. 

“You’d tell me, right? If this was a stupid idea?” David asked, handing him another rye ale from the only decent liquor store in a forty mile radius. Should his store carry alcohol?

Patrick looked up from where he was intently focused on ‘exploring all the new features of Excel 2019.’ Or something. David may have stopped paying attention back when Patrick had started talking about funnel charts and the power of MAXIF functions. 

“I feel like we know each other well enough by now for you to be sure I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about this.”

David gave him a sidelong glance. “You think we know each other well?”

“...You don’t?”

David considered the question. “It hasn’t been that long, since we met. Barely three months.”

Patrick shut the lid of his laptop, turning the full force of his attention on David.

“How long do you think you’d need, before you’d believe me?”

David blinked. “Maybe a bit longer,” he answered, more breathily that he intended. 

When did it get so quiet in here? Had the kitchen table shrunk? Why were they sitting so close together?

“I can wait,” Patrick said, looking at him with those warm, brown eyes.

Was David imagining it, or was Patrick...was Patrick _leaning_ toward him, ever so slightly -

David pulled back, clearing his throat. Why did he pull back? What was happening? Was this a _moment_? Did Patrick even know he was leaning? 

“I think that’s enough for tonight, yeah?” David said. 

Patrick shook himself, just slightly. Maybe it _had_ been a moment. A little one. A baby moment. 

“Okay, yeah. Probably time to wind down.”

“Spreadsheets got you all worked up?” David quipped, before he could reinstall his brain-to-mouth filter. 

Patrick shot him a half-smile. “Guess so.”

“Thank you...for your help with the business plan. Really,” David said. 

“It’s my pleasure. I really do think you’ve got something special there. With the store, I mean.”

“I believe you." Then he added, "Not a surprise, really. All my ideas are great."

Patrick’s smile spread to the other half of his face. “Even that time you tried to install the garbage disposal upside-down? Or when you almost used _unsanded_ grout in a 1/4 inch gap?”

“I don’t know, it looked like a pretty tight space to me,” David replied. 

“And you’re the expert? On tight spaces?” Patrick was still grinning. 

“I’m always extremely careful. When things are...tight.”

David began clearing the bottles and still-mostly-full plates of meatloaf off the table, in order to avoid looking at whatever Patrick’s face was doing now. He deposited the meatloaf into its rightful place in the trash.

“And anyway,” David added, “You were the one who tried to install _polished chrome_ drawer pulls when we'd already committed to a consistent satin nickel finish. Imagine.”

“Great comeback. You really put me in my place, David.”

 _I could put you in some really great places_ , David thought. He waved Patrick away instead. “Off with you. Enjoy baseball. Enjoy Ken.”

Patrick laughed. "I will." More quietly, he added, "I hope."

He squeezed David's shoulder as he passed, his fingertips dragging slightly as he let go. David suppressed a shiver.

Patrick now ensconced in his room, David knew what he needed to do. He was going to respect Patrick's journey, he was going to be so good. He was going to go to his own room and do some vendor research. Yes. And not think about...other things. He nodded decisively to himself.

Settled in against his headboard, he was mostly succeeding in ignoring the palpable silence from the other side of the wall. Mostly. _What was Patrick watching tonight?_

Just then, a quiet gasp cut through the silence, and David realized he'd made a miscalculation. The headphones David had loaned Patrick would keep his evening's choice of educational entertainment a mystery, but - _another gasp, with a hint of a moan_ \- he could still hear _Patrick_. 

David scrambled as silently as he could for his bag at the foot of the bed. He quietly unearthed the newly-acquired earbuds, scrolling on his phone to the least sexy auditory distraction he could find - there. Ray’s podcast, episode, _holy shit,_ 435\. 

_“Ladies and gentlemen, I know you’ve all been looking forward to this. On today's episode, we will be discussing the recent controversy surrounding the Moira's Rose's Garden. The Moira Rose Gardens. The Moira's Rose Garden.”_

Oh, fuck. Of fucking course. One of the earbuds was broken. In a cruel twist, David was being punished for the general store’s flagrant disregard for product quality control with the crystal clear sound of a high, shocked groan coming through the wall. 

_No,_ David whispered firmly to his dick, currently making its interest known against the soft fabric of his boxer briefs. Not again. He pressed his pillow over his ears and waited for it to be over. 

*

The following Saturday, Patrick loaned him his car so that David could go scope out a prospective vendor who made soap out of...something to do with sheep. He was still a little unclear on the details. It smelled amazing though, like what he wished the outdoors actually smelled like, fresh and beautiful.

As he was thanking Julia, the very pretty, very married farmer-slash-craftswoman, for her hospitality and the soap samples, his phone started buzzing in his pocket. Repeatedly. He tried to covertly silence it, promising Julia that his ‘fiscal consultant,’ i.e. Patrick, would be in touch with a tentative consignment agreement within the next few days. More buzzing. 

He said his goodbyes to Julia and got back into Patrick’s very clean, very respectable mid-size sedan, pulling over to the side of the road once he was out of sight of Julia’s house to check his notifications. His mother, Stevie, and Alexis. 

**Alexis:**

_DAVID_

_RED ALERT_

**David:**

_Remind me, is ‘red alert’ for when you need me to pick up tampons or coordinate an extraction from a hostile foreign country_

Her next three texts came in rapid fire succession. 

**Alexis:**

_Sebastien Raine. Is here._

_Going to do a shoot with Mom_

_Thought you’d want to know_

“ _Oh_ my God,” David shrieked to himself, alone in the car as he was. 

**Alexis:**

_🥨🥨🥨🥨_

**David:**

_I will not feel shame about the mall pretzels_

**Alexis:**

_She’s heading to the cafe in twenty minutes to meet him_

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He switched to the chain of connected messages from his mother. She always did prefer to text in paragraph form. 

**TV's Moira Rose:**

_Alexis indicated that I should inform you that the celebrated lensman, THE Sebastien Raine, has taken it upon himself to trek into this humble hamlet as part of an ongoing enterprise with your very own mother. Apparently you two had a dalliance some time ago? I presume this ended amicably - he is such a gentleman, after all._

Oh. Oh God. On to Stevie’s texts. 

**Stevie:**

_Uh, think your ex just asked to ‘polaroid me naked’_

_...Can I say yes?_

David let his head fall onto the steering wheel, accidentally setting off the horn and starting some of Julia's peaceably grazing sheep. Couldn’t David leave town for literally two hours without everyone making terrible decisions?! He needed to call in reinforcements. 

**David:**

_Help_

_I need a rational person_

**Patrick:**

_Very flattered you thought of me_

**David:**

_What would you do, hypothetically, if a nefarious ex of yours showed up in your town to cause problems for your mother_

**Patrick:**

_Well, I have exactly one (1) ex, and Rachel and my mother are very close. It’s kind of a problem actually...but back to you_

**David:**

_He’s evil_

_Like stupidly attractive, but evil_

**Patrick:**

_Need me to run him out of town?_

**David:**

_Oh my God, would you really?_

**Patrick:**

_I mean_

_Is he tall_

**David:**

_...Yes_

**Patrick:**

_Then I might be at a disadvantage_

_But I do have 34 first cousins and I’ve fought a lot of them_

_My nickname growing up was ‘Scrappy’_

Oh no, this was hot. Why was this hot. 

**David:**

_This is good information to have. Just in case._

**Patrick:**

_How did he wrong you, out of curiosity?_

_Just so I know how hard I’ll need to punch him_

_Not that you have to tell me_

David’s heart expanded three sizes at the promise of violent acts committed on his behalf. 

**David:**

_Just displayed naked photos of me in a gallery without my consent_

_Also maybe in avant garde travel magazine_

_And in a very popular architecture blog, oddly enough_

_There may also have been a limited run of postcards_

David’s phone rang in his hand. He answered. 

“David, are you serious?” Patrick’s voice sounded _dangerous._

“Um, maybe?”

“But that’s...that’s fucking awful.” Patrick said. 

“Hm, yeah. Doesn’t make it untrue though, sadly.”

“Is this why you didn’t love the idea of me googling you, back when we first met?” Patrick asked, his voice tense. 

“Among other reasons, sure. But if you did happen to stumble across them...I looked good at least, back then.”

“I’m not going to _stumble across them. Jesus_ , David. And ‘back then’? What does that even mean?” Patrick said, and something in his tone...

“Well, I don’t exactly embody the cocaine chic aesthetic anymore,” David said carefully. 

“And that’s - you’re saying that’s _bad._ "

“...Yes? No? What do you want me to say? At least on this straight-edge trajectory, I’ll probably live longer. Not much coke in Schitt’s Creek, I’ve found.”

Patrick didn’t laugh. 

“Are you - are you judging me, right now?” David asked, not wanting the answer.

“No. David, no. I’m just. I’m really angry, okay?”

“Okay but I’ve never seen you angry before? So this is kind of freaking me out.”

“Is it so hard to understand that I don’t like thinking about someone doing that to you?” Patrick said.

“Oh. I’m sorry I told you.”

Patrick let out an audible, frustrated breath. “That’s not what I meant. Where is this guy right now?”

Before David could think better of it, he answered, “Um, apparently about to meet my mother at the cafe. If the past is any guide, he’s about to con her into allowing him to take some exploitative portraits. Why?”

“Call you back.”

The line went dead. _What the fuck._ David sat immobilized on the side of the road for a solid twenty minutes, imagining the trainwreck that was doubtlessly unfolding in town. Maybe he should run away again. The Mennonites might take him back. They definitely wouldn’t take him back. How full was Patrick’s gas tank? Patrick was a full-tank-of-gas kind of person. David could probably make it to Toronto before anybody wondered where he’d gone. Patrick might wonder where he’d gone though, shit. 

His phone rang. Patrick again.

“Patrick, what the fuck is happening?”

“Hi, David. It’s Twyla.”

“Um, Twyla - not to be rude, but why am I talking to you right now?”

“Patrick is a little indisposed at the moment, and I thought I should call you? Since you live together and all. Is there someone else I should call?” Twyla said, sounding uncertain. 

Other than Alexis, David had never been someone’s first call. It made him a little verklempt, honestly. He cleared his throat.

“No, definitely call me. In the future. For Patrick-related emergencies. But what’s happening now? That seems important.”

“Well, there’s an attractive man here with a very impressive black eye. I’ve given him an ice pack, but -”

David cut her off. “Patrick has a black eye!?”

“No? I think his name is Sebastien Fog, maybe? Something with weather?”

Oh. Oh God. 

*

When David pulled up in front of the cafe, he saw Patrick, sitting on the curb. He had one of the cafe’s ugly dish towels wrapped around his hand. 

“Patrick, what the _fuck_? Are you okay?” David asked, crouching in front of him, his hands settling on Patrick’s knees without David’s conscious input on that decision. 

Patrick looked up at him, a wry grin on his face. “I’m fine.” 

“And your hand, that’s also fine?” David asked, wincing as he caught a glimpse of swollen knuckles.

“Really, David. I’m okay. He’s gone, by the way. Said there was no way he could work today when I’d, what was it, ‘damaged the eye he uses to see into the creative beyond’? So your mom - she’s safe too.”

When David didn’t, couldn’t, respond right away, Patrick continued. “I also may have threatened him with legal action? Thirteen of my cousins are attorneys. He’s not coming back.” 

David had never been so violently attracted to another person in his entire life. He realized his hands were clenched on Patrick’s thighs now, just above his knees. When did that happen?

“Are you mad?” Patrick asked, in a small voice. 

David shook his head firmly, still unable to get any words out. He stood up, reaching out a hand to Patrick to help him up. Patrick took it, and there was a noticeable, if brief, moment when David could have sworn they were technically _holding hands._ David loosened his grip, and they headed for home. 

*

“What if I quit Ray’s?” Patrick asked, that night. They were on either end of their recently-acquired sofa, a polite, platonic gap in between their legs. David could feel every inch of the distance in the marrow of his bones. 

“Is he trying to get you to help out with the closet organization business again?”

Patrick laughed. “That’s not it. I...what if I was your partner instead?’

David stopped breathing. 

“With the store.”

Oh, of course. 

“You’d want that?” They already spent so much of their time together - wouldn’t Patrick get sick of him?

“I told you before - it’s a great idea, your store. I really want to be a part of it.”

“A bigger part, you mean. You’re already part of it.”

The grin slipped from Patrick’s face. “Unless - it’s totally okay, if you don’t want me to. I shouldn’t have presumed.”

“What? No - I want you. I mean, you’d be really...helpful. As my business partner. You’ve _been_ helpful. To have you there, full-time? Then maybe the store stands a real chance.” 

Patrick smiled warmly at him, and the distance between their thighs shrunk, if only in David’s eager imagination. 

*

“So my parents are coming to visit this weekend,” Patrick said on a Wednesday a couple of weeks later, flipping a pancake in the air with an dexterity of a very sexy line cook. 

“Oh?” David said, watching him from the kitchen table. ‘Pre-Work’ was his favorite look on Patrick, before he’d buttoned himself up and put away the pale skin of his arms and the problematically lovely dip at the base of his throat. 

It had been a few weeks since Patrick had pretended to finish the Ken Burns baseball series and moved on to other excuses David hoped to God were made up. His favorite so far was, ‘The biannual televised Norwegian fly-fishing tournament.’ 

“Yeah, they said they wanted to see me before we open the store, since we’ll be extra busy for a while after that. They’re really excited to meet you, too.”

“Oh, wow. Mmhm.” Meeting the parents, okay. David wasn’t filled with anxiety at that prospect at all. What if they didn’t like him, what if -

“You alright there?” Patrick said, setting a perfectly-browned pancake down on the table in front of David. 

“Yup, fine. So,” David said. “Are they going to be staying at the motel?”

“I was actually wondering about asking them to stay here. If you’re alright with that.”

“...Here. Huh. Of course I’m alright with that, but one question. Is there a guest room I don’t know about? A sleeper sofa, at least? Oh wait, were you one of those hippy families that shared a bed? No judgment if you were. I’ve heard it’s great for, like, parent-child bonding, or something -”

Patrick cut him off, laughing. “I’d be giving them my bed, David. And no, the Brewers are not the family bed type of people.”

“But if you give them your room, then -” 

“I figured I’d share with you for the night. You owe me, remember? That first night here?” 

Oh, David definitely remembered. But things had gotten so, so much worse since then. 

“Right,” David said in a semi-strangled voice. “That’s fine, that’ll be good. I mean, it’ll be fine. Totally fine.”

A crease appeared between Patrick’s faint suggestion of eyebrows. 

“Or I can sleep on the couch?” Patrick hedged, “It’s just, you’ve talked a lot about your mattress, and while I’m grateful to Ted for hooking us up with a free couch from the senior center’s basement, it’s not the best for a restful night of sleep?”

“You’re not sleeping on the couch. Absolutely not. You’re welcome in my bed anytime. I mean -”

Patrick was back to nudging pancakes around on the stove, but the tips of his ears were pink.

David thought of something else. “But won’t your parents think - they might think that you...that we’re -”

Patrick turned to face him, head tilted to the side. “They might think what?”

David tried to see through the innocent expression on his face. “That we...do that. Share a bed. On a regular basis?”

“Oh, you want to make it a regular thing? Friday night slumber parties? The top section of your hair might be long enough to french braid. One of my cousins taught me how.”

“Okay, putting aside that little war crime, it doesn’t bother you that your parents might think we’re sleeping together?”

“But we will be sleeping together, David. At least I hope so.”

David’s brain went to static. 

“If I don’t snore this time, that is,” Patrick added.

“For fuck’s sake!” David said. 

“Why would it bother me? If they thought that. That we were -” he made a ridiculous gesture with a fist and the palm of his other hand, trollish confidence dissipated. 

“Oh. I guess it wouldn’t. Nevermind. It’s not like we’re actually...”

“No. We’re not, are we.” Patrick delivered this line while looking him straight in the eye. And hey, that was unfair. 

David shoveled a bite of pancake into his mouth. “Great pancakes,” he said, mouth full. 

Patrick held his gaze for another long moment, then rolled his eyes, smiling and maybe even a little fond. 

*

**David:**

_Stevie, I need advice_

**Stevie:**

_Yes, you and your dad should have an honest conversation about your feelings_

**David:**

_Not what I need advice about. Also, fuck you_

**Stevie:**

_Hey, you asked_

**David:**

_Not about that, I didn’t!_

_It’s about Patrick_

**Stevie:**

_Of course it is_

_Did he finally start using the stolen motel bath towels I hid in your bathroom?_

**David:**

_Fuck, I knew those looked familiar!!_

_Not that I looked_

_At anything_

_That might have been...visible_

**Stevie:**

_Of course not_

**David:**

_We’re sharing a bed_

**Stevie:**

_Congratulations, it only took you two idiots 5000 years_

**David:**

_No, I mean, his parents are visiting tonight, and we’re doubling up so they can use his bed_

**Stevie:**

_Oh great, so the idiocy continues unabated_

_So what’s the problem, because all I see are solutions_

**David:**

_Tell me about these solutions_

**Stevie:**

_Kiss him_

_Put your mouth on his mouth_

**David:**

_How, though_

**Stevie:**

_If I recall correctly, you know how_

**David:**

_That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me_

**Stevie:**

_Fuck off and kiss him_

David set his phone aside and remade his bed for the fourth time. As though the precision of his hospital corners could make Patrick want to put his mouth on David’s mouth. 

*

When Patrick and his parents returned from dinner at the cafe, David was prepared with a bottle of cabernet from one of their vendors and a fully-stocked, locally-sourced charcuterie board. He may have been trying too hard, but it had been Tuna Surprise night at the cafe, and David figured they might not have eaten much. 

Patrick’s father had clapped him on the shoulder in a very man-to-man way and thanked him for the redo dinner. Over wine and cheese, Clint and Marcy told him sweet and barely embarrassing stories from Patrick’s childhood, and asked polite and interested questions about the store. 

They were sweet. A little mild, maybe. Like Patrick in some ways, but in soft-focus. His mom looked at Patrick like he’d hung the moon, her eyes full of simple, uncomplicated affection for her son, as well as what was clearly a whole lot of pride. She’d sometimes glance between he and David, probably catching David staring. 

“An apartment, a business ... how lucky that you two found each other!” Marcy said, high spots of color in her cheeks from her small glass of nearly-finished wine. 

“We’re very proud, son,” Clint added, arm around the back of his wife’s chair. 

Patrick scratched at the back of his neck, bashful and without a comeback, something David had rarely seen from him. 

“We can’t wait to come back when the store opens in a few weeks!” Marcy said.

“We’d be honored, Mr. and Mrs. Brewer,” David replied. 

“Oh none of that ‘Mrs. Brewer’ nonsense - it’s ‘Marcy’ to you, dear.”

Patrick was biting back a grin, David could see out of the corner of his eye. 

“Marcy, can I get you more wine?” David asked. 

“I would - it’s delicious! But I better stop at one, or I’ll start getting silly.”

“And with that, how about a quick tour before we turn in,” Clint said, smiling at Marcy.

"Sounds good! Let me just grab these dishes -" 

Patrick stood up and started to clear the table before David stopped him with a light touch to his back and a quiet ‘ _le_ _t me.’_

As Patrick led his parents away to show off the rest of the apartment, he flashed David a grateful smile, mouthing 'thank you' at him. It was almost enough to make David feel bad for eavesdropping as he tidied up the kitchen.

"Son, this tile work is excellent!" David heard Clint say. "And your caulk lines are very neat."

"Oh, David's really good at handling caulk."

David nearly dropped a glass and gave away the game.

"I love the subtle paint colors," Marcy said. "Very modern."

"That'd be David again," Patrick replied. "I've been informed that this is a very modern shade of pearl gray."

"And the drywall, very sharp. Nice corners."

"Thanks, Dad."

David quickly busied himself at the sink while Patrick showed off the new crown molding, baseboards, and window trim in the living room. His parents gratifyingly oohed and ahhed. It almost, but not quite, made up for how sincerely David had hated every bit of that particular part of the renovation - except for the way Patrick looked with a trim nail gun in his hand. 

Next, Patrick showed his mother into his room while Clint excused himself to the bathroom. David didn’t have to strain to hear the continuing conversation, grateful for the first time for their paper-thin walls.

"I think you and David have done a wonderful job with this place,” Marcy said. “He seems like an excellent partner." 

“...He is,” Patrick said after a beat, and David would have sold their as-yet unopened store for a look at his face right now. 

“Patrick, is there something else, between you two? You can tell me, if there is.”

“Mom.”

“Oh, honey...”

David couldn’t make out anything else, as Clint had started the shower, the noise drowning out Patrick and Marcy’s quiet conversation. _Holy shit_. David needed something to do with his shaking hands, so he started filling the kettle and getting the little mesh filters Patrick liked ready with some chamomile tea. 

When Patrick and Marcy came back out from Patrick’s room, David couldn’t help but look up to check the expressions on their faces. Marcy smiled warmly at David when their eyes met, but Patrick was looking anywhere but at him.

“Thank you again for a lovely evening, David,” Marcy said, coming toward him. Oh, was she going to...yes. Marcy slid her arms around him, hugging him tightly. 

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Brewer,” David said. “I mean, Marcy,” he amended, when she pulled back to look up at him with a grin and narrowed eyes. 

Just then, Clint reemerged from the bathroom, dressed in extremely fatherly pinstripe pajamas. 

“Excellent water pressure,” he announced. “Well, I’m going to turn in. You coming too, dear?”

Marcy gave Patrick a long hug, his chin resting on top of her head. She whispered something to him that David couldn’t hear. She shut the door to Patrick’s room behind her, leaving David alone with Patrick.

David finished brewing the tea, adding the correct amount of honey to Patrick’s. He started recleaning the already sparkling countertops. 

“Think the counters are clean, David,” Patrick said, leaning against the door frame in an inexcusably attractive way. “Are you tired? Want to go to bed?”

David nodded. “I made you tea. You want to get ready first? It’ll have cooled down enough, after.”

“Sure. And thanks for the tea.”

David bit his lip, smiling despite his escalating anxiety. 

By the time Patrick returned from the bathroom, David had wiped down the appliances and deep-cleaned the inside of the microwave. He felt marginally better. That is, until his fingers brushed Patrick’s when he handed him the mug of tea. 

“Thanks again,” Patrick said, and was David imagining that he just - did he just look at his mouth? For a second?

“I’ll...be right back. See you in there,” David said. 

He brushed his teeth a little extra-thoroughly and put on just the smallest hint of cologne after finishing his nightly routine, just in case. When he opened the door to his room, he wasn’t sure if he was hoping for Patrick to be asleep, or awake. He got the latter.

“You like the side of the bed furthest from the door, right?” Patrick asked softly, seated up against the headboard under the covers. 

“That’s right,” David replied, pulling back the duvet and lying down stiffly beside him. 

Patrick clicked the bedside table light off, leaving the room almost completely dark. Oh. Oh no, this was so much worse now. David could hear Patrick breathing, the night wrapping them in a cocoon of stupidity where David might - he might -

Patrick rolled toward him. “David.”

“Mmhmm?” 

“I’ve realized something.”

“What’s that?” David whispered. 

“It’s a general realization, but also a very specific realization,” Patrick said, and _fuck_ , David could feel the heat of his breath on his face, they were so close. “I’m gay, I think. I mean, I like guys - I’m sure about that part anyway. That’s the general thing.”

“And what’s the specific thing?” David said, barely a whisper. Patrick shifted closer. 

“The specific realization is, um, I like _you_. A lot, actually, and -” 

David’s hand had a will of its own, wrapping around the back of Patrick’s neck and pulling him in until finally, _finally_ , they were kissing. He was kissing Patrick. At first, Patrick was letting him lead the kiss, David’s hand cradling the back of his head. But then, Patrick was guiding him onto his back and fucking _straddling him_ , hands gripped in David’s sleep shirt before coming back in and sucking David’s lower lip into his mouth, nipping a little. David slid his hands up Patrick’s arms, those arms he’d watched build things, that he’d lusted after for weeks, months, possibly since the earth was formed. 

But then he remembered something. He pulled back a hair's breadth from Patrick’s mouth. “What did you and your mom talk about?”

“Really, David? You want to talk about my mom? Now?”

“It seemed important.”

“You. We talked about you. And me, by proxy. Us.”

“There’s an ‘us’?”

“If you want there to be, there’s an ‘us.’ I told her I wasn’t sure if you felt the same way.”

“You weren’t sure I felt the same - oh my God, Stevie was right. We’re so, so stupid.” David pulled Patrick in again, one hand on his lower back, the other cupped around his jaw, his thumb tracing over Patrick’s cheek. Patrick hummed into the kiss, his hips shifting against David. David reciprocated the motion, just the smallest suggestion of a grind. 

“Patrick,” he said. Patrick hummed again in response, his open mouth trailing down the side of David’s neck before he nosed aside the collar of David’s shirt and latched onto the skin of the top of his shoulder. “ _Patrick_ ,” he said with an attempt at greater firmness, but it came out like the beginnings of a moan. But then, somehow, by the grace of a god he only occasionally believed in, he pulled his wits together from where they were currently scattered amongst the stratosphere. 

“Wait, wait.”

Patrick pulled back. 

“What I want to do to you can’t happen with your parents on the other side of this wall,” David whispered. 

“Why not?” Patrick said, eyes glazed and mouth slightly agape. 

“These walls. They’re very, very thin,” David said, grimacing. 

“What?” Patrick said, makeout-stupid. But then clarity came over his face. “Does this mean...have you. Have you, um, heard anything? Through the wall?”

Just then, a loud snore broke the silence before David could figure out a graceful way to answer. Patrick’s eyes widened comically, his mouth splitting into a grin, before he tipped forward onto David’s chest to suppress a laugh into his shoulder. 

David kissed the side of his head, his arms coming up to hold him. Why did this feel so natural? Why hadn’t they been doing this all along? Maybe they could turn Patrick’s bedroom into an office, because David was never letting him out of this bed. A yoga studio? If he started doing yoga, that is. Maybe Patrick needed more space for, like, sports things. Whatever that entailed. He might have been thinking too many steps ahead. He tugged on Patrick’s hair a little to encourage him to kiss him some more. Patrick kindly obliged. 

*

In the morning, after breakfast, Clint and Marcy hugged them both on their way out the door, after repeating compliments on the apartment and well-wishes for the store’s opening in two weeks. 

Patrick turned to him once the door was shut behind them. “So, any plans for today?”

David grinned at him. “Oh, I don’t know. My business partner has been saying we need to get to work on our store’s marketing campaign. Something about a Gantt chart and a branding guide? So I’ll probably be pretty busy. With that.” He pulled Patrick closer by the pockets of his sweatshirt.

“I think he could probably give you the day off. If you asked nicely.”

“In that case.” He leaned forward, dipping his head until his mouth was next to Patrick’s ear. “Please, Patrick.”

“Your place or mine?” Patrick murmured. 

“Okay, that was cheesy, lucky for you this is a sure thing, so. You pick.”

“Mine?” Patrick said. “Kind of been wanting to get you back into my bed for a while now.”

“Happily.” David laced their fingers together, and Patrick pulled him toward his room. 

*

“So it needs saying -” David said, as Patrick worked his hands underneath the hem of David’s shirt, mouth latched onto the same spot on his neck he’d made friends with last night. “We don’t have to, _hmm,_ rush? Anything?”

Patrick scratched his nails across David’s lower back. 

“It’s been four months straight of foreplay, David. You really want to keep waiting?” Patrick said, before kissing him quiet again. 

“When you put it like that...” David pushed Patrick back gently until his legs hit the side of the bed and Patrick cooperated by lying back on the mattress. When David settled on the floor at his feet, Patrick rose to his elbows to look down at him inquisitively. 

“What are you doing down there?” Patrick asked. 

David skated his hands up Patrick’s still-clothed legs, starting at his ankles. Patrick shivered. 

“I could live down here, I think,” David said without thinking. It was true. 

“Anything...else? That you want to do down there?” Patrick said, smirking at him. 

David rested his head against Patrick’s thigh. “Hm. Any ideas, in particular?”

“You could, um.”

Deciding that mercy was appropriate given that Patrick was new to all this, David said, “I could suck you off. Or we could make out. I love making out. If all you wanted for the next year was to make out, that’d be fine.”

“A little early in the relationship to be talking about renewing our lease, isn’t it?” Patrick quipped, the mocking undercut by the breathiness of his voice. “The first thing. You’d do that?”

“It’s hardly a chore,” David answered honestly. 

“Then yes. That. Please.”

“So polite,” David said. “Lift your hips for me?” 

Patrick did, and David slid his pants down and off, leaving his boxers on. He was going _slow_. 

He kissed the newly-exposed skin on the inside of Patrick’s knee, and Patrick’s hands wove themselves into his hair, with just the right amount of pull. 

As he carefully worked Patrick’s cock through the handy slit in his four leaf clover-print boxers, David made a conscious effort not to drift into blowjob headspace. It’s just, he was really good at this. Really, really good. Professional-level good. But he didn’t want to be a professional, with Patrick. He just really wanted to suck his dick and stay present for it. Patrick deserved that. Maybe they both did.

So instead of going for the theatrical, porn-adjacent blowjob, he went slow. He kissed up the side of Patrick’s cock, mouthing the head and tonguing at the slit, using his hand instead of his relative lack of gag reflex to work him over. There was a lot to work with, here. 

Patrick was a fantastic recipient. Not everybody was. It was a skill unto itself, receiving head gracefully. Patrick though, Patrick was amazing. Pulling on his hair, just the right amount. A perfect ratio of ‘fuck, David’ to wordless moans. 

David barely realized that he’d snuck a hand into his own loose sleep pants until he was fucking into his own fist to match the rhythm of his mouth on Patrick’s cock. 

“David, David, Jesus Christ, I’m -”

David hummed, ready for it. He sunk down deeper. 

“ _Fuck_ , David, come on, make me, come on, I want to see it -”

David could work with that. He pulled off, maintaining the pressure with his hand, pressing the head of Patrick’s cock against his cheek so that, _shit,_ Patrick could watch. David’s hand stuttered on his own cock, coming with a gasp as Patrick jerked and came against his face, hands clenched in his hair. 

“Oh my God, oh my God - what the _fuck_ , how are you so, so - David, come up here.”

David gave his face a cursory wipe-down with Patrick's (machine washable) sleep pants, then stood up from his place on the floor on unsteady legs. He let himself practically fall on top of Patrick, and Patrick helpfully guided their mouths back together into a messy, boneless kiss. 

*

An indeterminate amount of time later, Patrick said, “I’m really glad I decided to be your roommate, David.”

“That is a lovely thing to say.”

“‘And I'm so glad you did, Patrick, because you've really helped to turn this apartment into the home that it is,’” Patrick said, mocking him. 

“Hmm. A bold claim,” David said, drawing him in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an epilogue, because there's no way I'm done with these idiots now that they've figured out their shit. So stay tuned?


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My God, [this_is_not_nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/pseuds/this_is_not_nothing), without you, no one would ever be in the right bed, clothes would never correctly be off when they are supposed to be, and I'd probably never write again. 💜

"So what's life like now, with a live-in boyfriend?" Stevie asked, perched beside him on the picnic table outside the motel. 

"He's not my live-in boyfriend," David replied testily. "We're roommates. Roommates who, as of last week, are seeing each other. Or something."

"Uh huh. Live-in boyfriend."

"We don't live together though? Like we have separate rooms. Anyway, how's  _ Jake _ ?" David deflected. 

Stevie raised a finger at him. "Don't."

"Well, if  _ my _ love life is fair game..."

Stevie's expression turned shark-like. "Oh, so it's  _ love _ , then."

"No! Definitely not! That would be...that would be insane. We barely know each other. Strangers, really."

"I see," Stevie said. "Remind me, what's his middle name again?"

"Anthony, after his paternal grandfather," David answered without thinking. He grimaced.

"I rest my case." Stevie patted him on the shoulder as she stood up from the table. "You still need help unboxing product at the store tomorrow?"

"...Yes."

"Warmest regards on your new, committed relationship, David."

David grumbled inarticulately in reply, flipping her off behind her back as she walked away. 

He pulled his phone out to check his messages, and saw a couple of texts from Patrick. He denied to himself that the sight of Patrick's name in his notifications made his stomach do an utterly embarrassing little flip.

**Patrick:**

_ Hey I'm at the store, need anything? _

_ I got you one of those pretentious frozen pizzas you like _

**David:**

_ A frozen pizza, by definition, cannot be pretentious _

_ Also, thank you _

**Patrick:**

_ It has arugula on it. It's a pretentious frozen pizza _

_ See you at home _

Huh. So it was technically possible that David had a live-in boyfriend after all. 

*

Undressed and in David’s bed after the pizza was jointly demolished, Patrick was sitting back on his heels in between David's spread legs. "So, I've watched a bit of porn," Patrick said. At David's bitten-back grin, he added, "As you already know, because of our apartment's excellent construction standards." 

"Would we say a bit? Maybe more than a bit?"

Patrick flicked a nail over his nipple, making David groan. Unfair. 

"Mm, how much though? And the right kind? Not to mention that just, like, as a general rule, porn isn't the best teacher."

"So are you going to be my teacher, David?" Patrick murmured, before dipping down to suck a mark into the dip below David's hipbone. 

"Um." David had apparently lost the powers of speech.

"And what pedagogical approach will you be taking?" Patrick asked, before moving to install a twin mark to David's other hip. "Socratic? Montessori? Is there an instruction manual I should study?"

"No," David said. "I mean, yes, actually - there are several excellent ones. I can make you a reading list. But I'd say you're,  _ fuck  _ -" Patrick had moved to suck at his inner thigh. "Doing just fine on your own."

Patrick licked from root to tip before wetting his lips and sliding his mouth down around an impressive amount of David's dick. David's hands scrabbled in the sheets in an effort not to pull Patrick's hair. 

"What the  _ fuck _ , Patrick?" he managed to gasp.

Patrick pulled off, a thin line of spit connecting his grinning mouth to the head of David's cock. 

"What kind of porn have you been  _ watching _ ?" David asked.

"Mm. Might have been practicing a little too," Patrick said, letting David's dick rub his cheek as he kissed up from the base. 

A vision of Patrick, on his knees for someone in a bathroom at the Dude Cave, flashed before David's eyes, accompanied by a hot lick of both jealousy and arousal.

"Oh. That's, um, great. I'm glad you...got that experience."  _ Glad _ , that's all the feeling was, had to be. "I hope the lucky guy, or guys - no judgment, obviously - were good. For you."

Patrick looked up at him, rolling his eyes, and there should be a law against eye rolling when one's mouth was full of cock. He pulled off again. 

"Yeah, the zucchini was really patient with me."

David's mouth dropped open. "Excuse me? You practiced deep-throating on a  _ vegetable _ ? And aren't zucchinis kind of...spiny?"

"I'm pretty sure zucchinis are fruits," Patrick said, breath hot and teasing on David's charged skin. " _ And I whittled the spines off. _ "

"Holy shit. Um, I believe my original point stands?" David said. 

"And you're arguing with the results of my resourcefulness?" Patrick said, angling his head to take his cock in deep and slow, tongue flicking around the head on his way down. 

"No, no. Not arguing, more, um -" David involuntarily arched on the bed. "Wondrous?"

On his next pause for breath, Patrick said, "I'd pass along the compliments to my test subject, but I believe it's compost now. Or soup."

"You  _ ate _ the vegetable dildo?" David said in horror. 

Patrick sputtered around his dick, pulling off to laugh into the crease of his hip.

"Why didn't you just go out and blow a real, live person?" David asked before kicking himself. 

Patrick pressed a biting kiss to the mark he'd made earlier. "Well, I was kind of interested in this one guy, but there were complications."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Oh, don't be. I'd say we've worked it out," Patrick said, tonguing the slit of his dick before sucking hard on the head and as much of the shaft as he could.

"So I have a vegetable, pardon me, a  _ fruit _ , to thank for this," David ruminated, petting Patrick's hair absentmindedly.

Patrick slid off, huffing in something approaching fond irritation. "And a dildo I got from the sex shop a couple exits up highway 10? The dildo smelled, and tasted, like tires and carcinogens. I think I preferred the zucchini."

"Why didn't you order something nice online? You shouldn't be putting that cheap shit in your mouth," David chided, thumbing at the corner of Patrick's lips, stretched around him again.

Patrick looked mournfully at David's dick when he popped off again. "You've opened my mail by mistake before."

"That was one time, and I apologized!" Why was David arguing instead of testing the limits of Patrick's seemingly non-existent gag reflex? Who could say? "You're saying it's my fault you sucked on produce and PVC cocks to prepare for this performance."

Patrick leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of David's chest until he was positively looming over David.

"You are definitely to blame. For the mail thing and for the, frankly,  _ relentless _ inspiration to practice blow jobs at all. And clearly I need to practice more because you're still  _ talking _ ."

David stroked a hand through the short hairs at the back of his head in apology as Patrick resumed sucking him, and resigned himself to the very sexy fact that the only thing he was going to he able to teach Patrick about giving skillful head was how to use his hands to supplement the actions of his talented mouth. 

To that point, David tugged one of the hands that Patrick was using to brace himself on the mattress, bringing it up to David's own nipple. His fingers over Patrick's, he helped Patrick pinch at it, roll it between his fingers. David was a very helpful person, after all. Patrick hummed around him, swatting David's hand away and copying his movements with the same precision he used to load the dishwasher or complete tax documents. 

David might have been becoming a little obsessed with the focused little V-shaped crease between Patrick's eyebrows as he let the head of David's dick bump the back of his throat. David stayed perfectly still. Except for his right hand, which had apparently acquired sentience at some point in the last twenty minutes; it was on a rogue mission to memorize the curve of Patrick's cheek, the shell of his ear, the taut line of his neck.

Sometime between when Patrick added a twist to the hand he had wrapped around the base of David's cock and when he first felt the silky confines of Patrick's actual throat around him, David relaxed and started to float. He'd never been taken apart this thoroughly, this patiently, by someone he could practically _ hear _ creating a mental catalogue of his every shiver and groan. 

On one of Patrick's experimental deep dives, he tongued at the top of David's balls, throat working around his cock, and that was fucking  _ it _ . He had barely enough wherewithal to gasp out a strangled " _ Patrick _ ," his hands clenched in Patrick's hair as he tried to tug him off. Instead of cooperating, Patrick gripped both his hands, lacing their fingers together and pressing their joined hands into the sheets on either side. Then, he swallowed, and David let out possibly the most egregiously loud sex noise he'd ever genuinely produced as he came down Patrick's throat. 

Patrick let David's hands go, attempting to nudge him to the side to make room beside him on the bed. Which was absurd, because how could David be expected to move, in his compromised condition. 

"Scoot, David," Patrick said, his voice flatteringly hoarse. 

"So bossy," David slurred.

"You want bossy?" Patrick eyed him, considering.

"...No?" David replied, unconvincing even to himself. He rolled over gracelessly to make space for Patrick, mindless of the wet spot he was creating.

Patrick hummed in response before settling next to him. David turned his body into his. He'd crawl down the bed and return the favor; he just needed a minute to recover.

David must have drifted off for a moment because when he next opened his eyes, Patrick was dressed in a t-shirt and boxer briefs, his hair damp. He was lying beside David, leaning on his elbow and watching him. If David didn't know better, he'd describe Patrick's expression as exceedingly, wretchedly fond. Did his own face look like that too? What the fuck, truly. 

"I didn't get you off," David said, voicing his unsettling realization aloud. 

Patrick laughed, which,  _ hey. _

"It doesn't have to be a quid pro quo," Patrick said.

"I don't speak Latin. All I know is I owe you an orgasm."

Patrick shook his head. "Nope."

"Okay, sure, but also, this situation is unacceptable."

Patrick's grin slipped. "Alright, why does this bug you so much? There's no scorekeeping here."

"Correct," David said, with as much determination as he could project while still naked. "You didn't score. That's the problem."

"I definitely did though?"

"Ugh. So you're saying you don't want a blow job?"

"Not now, I don't." 

"Are you...mad at me? For wanting to return the favor?" David sincerely wished he was properly dressed for this confusing turn the conversation had taken. 

"I don't know, David. This is all new to me. Do you have to even the scales right this second to feel okay about what we just did?"

"Um, sort of?" At Patrick's expression, he hesitantly added, "I might not be totally...used to...someone wanting to do things for me without expecting something in return. Historically, a reciprocal blow job would have been like, the bare minimum."

Patrick rolled to his back. “Okay. Alright. I get it,” he said to the ceiling. 

“Sooooo...” David said, plucking at his t-shirt. 

“Nope. Personal growth opportunity for you. Accept the free, no-strings-attached orgasm.”

“...Thank you? This is deeply uncomfortable for me.”

“You’re welcome. And anyway, I got myself off in the shower already.”

David gasped. “And you didn’t let me  _ watch _ ?”

“You’d - you’d want to watch?” Patrick said, turning toward him again but steadfastly not making eye contact. 

David nodded vigorously. “Um, yes? Obviously? Is that surprising?”

Patrick scrubbed a hand through his hair, cheeks pink. Funny, talking about fellating a zucchini didn’t do the trick, but the idea that David would have an interest in Patrick doing some solo work on his dick...blush-city. 

“Maybe? I’m not used to feeling, uh. Attractive. To someone I’m attracted to.”

“You’re attracted to me?”

“You’re a lot smarter than that question, David.”

David rolled his eyes, pleased at the buried compliment. “Does it occur to you that perhaps I’d like to hear the answer anyway?”

Patrick kissed his bare shoulder. “You’re very attractive.” He kissed the shell of David’s ear. “To me.”

“Okay, so now I’m both flattered and offended at that qualifier.”

“Pretty sure you already know you’re attractive to most living, breathing human beings,” Patrick near-whispered into his ear. David's dick was getting confused, refusing to listen to his upstairs brain’s instructions to Stand Down. 

“Could you go again?” Patrick murmured, skating a hand under the sheet, down over David’s chest. 

“...No?”

“Are you sure about that?” Patrick said, ghosting his fingers over David’s stupid, greedy dick.

“Also no,” David admitted. 

Patrick smirked at him. David wanted to wipe that expression off his face. He kicked the sheet to the foot of the bed then quickly swung a leg over Patrick’s hips, pinning him in place. But before he could properly gloat, Patrick reversed their positions with a humiliatingly minor amount of effortful grunting. He then gathered up both of David’s wrists in his hands and brought them to the bars of the headboard. 

“Keep these here.”

“Bossy,” David said. 

“Is that alright with you?” Patrick asked, tipping his head to the side, that considering look back on his face. 

David chuckled darkly. “More than alright.”

“Good to know." He took his hands off David's wrists, dragging them down the exposed undersides of David's arms. "Okay, I’m going to get you off again, alright? Just stay right there. Think you can do that for me?”

Oh no, that ‘ _ for me _ ’ would be the end of him. David nodded mutely. 

“Going to need a verbal yes or no, David,” Patrick prodded. 

“Yes. Also, may I just say, you’re very good at this?” David said, hoping the statement registered as the veiled inquiry that it was. 

“I may have had some real-life experience with this part,” Patrick said, looking him straight in the eye. And really, that was just unfair. People didn’t just  _ look _ at him that way, with that amount of stone-cold-sober focus. 

"Go on, then," David said quietly.

Patrick sat back on his heels between David's spread legs, pulled his shirt over his head, and tugged his dick through the fly of his boxer briefs.

"I said I want to see, remember?" David said. 

Patrick flashed a quick grin at him before getting his boxers off and throwing them over his shoulder. He reached for David’s bedside table drawer, where he well-knew David kept a bottle of the organic lube they had recently sourced for the store. 

"This is what you want? Really?" Patrick said, a little bit of his bravado slipping. 

"Yes,” David replied. “It really, really is.”

Patrick slicked up his hand and gave his dick a slow stroke, showing off. From this angle, it felt like all of David’s vision was taken up by the hypnotizing sight of the wet head of Patrick’s cock being slowly exposed from within his fist. David was grateful for the instruction to keep his hands out of the way - he didn’t want to interrupt any of  _ this. _

And Patrick, Patrick was just watching him. David tried to track the journey of his stare, migrating from David’s eyes, to his neck, his chest, and lower. When his gaze made it down to David’s own cock, his mouth dropped open, and the speed of his hand quickened. 

“Take your time. Please,” David said. “Don’t rush this.”

Patrick slowed down, the tension in his shoulders releasing as he settled back more loosely on his heels. 

“Sorry. Got a little carried away. You’re just really... _ fuck _ , David.”

“Mm. I see. Care to share your thoughts?”

Patrick laughed quietly. “Like I said. You’re gorgeous.”

David preened, arching his back to show off the curve of his neck. Sebastien had once called it ‘sublime.’ He might have been a complete and total asshole, but David had logged that little compliment away. 

Patrick gasped. “Jesus Christ, David. I know you said to slow down, but -”

“Okay, alright. You can go ahead - come on.”

“I thought I was -  _ shit _ \- supposed to be the bossy one right now,” Patrick said breathlessly, his hand moving faster now, the other cupping his balls as he rose to his knees to tower over David. 

“Who said this can’t be a cooperative effort. Show me you like this.”

“Not -  _ goddamn  _ \- gonna be a problem. Where?”

“Anywhere. All over me. Dealer’s choice.”

“Fuck, fuck, shit, David!”

David grinned to himself, very much enjoying the show, his own heart racing like he was the one getting off. 

Patrick’s brow furrowed and he groaned as he aimed his cock square at David’s own, come dripping down over David’s balls. Spent, Patrick slumped forward, resting his head on David’s chest and doubtlessly gluing them together. David figured he was allowed to let his arms down now, so he draped them around Patrick, stroking up and down his spine as Patrick’s breathing evened out. Patrick pressed a kiss over his heart before sitting up again, bringing his lubed-up hand to David’s cock and stroking him firmly from the base to the head. 

David let out a groan he couldn’t presently muster any embarrassment about, settling his hands on Patrick’s hips and pushing himself up into Patrick’s fist. 

“Give it to me, David, come on,” Patrick said, stroking him through the combined mess of his come and the lube. David sent a silent prayer of thanks to Farmer Robertson and her extremely long-lasting lube for the perfect amount of friction his cock was currently enjoying. David couldn’t restrain himself from fucking into Patrick’s hand, and miliseconds later, he was swearing and grunting and adding his own come to the sheer disaster their bodies had become. 

Patrick leaned forward, pressing a kiss to David’s slack mouth as David tried to remember how to breathe. 

“Shower. Change sheets. Sleep,” David said against Patrick’s smiling lips. “Got you all dirty again.”

Patrick nodded, standing up and offering David a steadying hand out of the bed. This was appreciated, as David’s leg bones had apparently turned to unset jelly in the time he’d been horizontal. 

As David adjusted the taps and came back to consciousness under the shower’s excellent spray, Patrick started a load of laundry. This apartment really did have water pressure to spare. 

When Patrick slid open the shower door and stepped inside, David amended his to-do list for the remainder of the evening. “I think we’re going to have to burn your bed. It’s defiled.”

Patrick laughed, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. 

“Good thing we still have mine then, yeah?" Patrick said. "We’ve managed with one bed before.”

David stiffened. Stevie’s words reverberated in his mind.  _ Live-in boyfriend.  _

“Maybe mine is salvageable after all. After a hot wash and maybe some Oxy-Clean for the sheets .”

“You don’t want to share tonight then?” Patrick said, kissing over the bone at the base of his neck, which was just uncalled for really, as it was David’s Achilles’ heel. Achilles’ vertebra. Whatever. 

David was glad he was facing the tile shower wall. “Um.”

Patrick dropped his hands from David’s back, where he’d been drawing soapy spirals made of body wash. “Oh. Okay.” 

David turned around, which was a mistake, because now his face was dangerously close to Patrick's. Why was this shower so small? Whose fault was that? David distinctly remembered it being larger, when he'd blown Patrick in this very spot on Wednesday. Patrick had been shocked and shaking when he came on David's tongue, David brushing just the barest tip of his index finger against his hole. 

"It's just - you said once that you never really got to have your own space. And now you do, sort of, and I don't want to intrude on that. This thing. With us - it shouldn't get in the way. Of what you want."

Patrick slid his arms around David's waist, their skin sliding wetly together.

"What I want. Hm." Patrick pressed a water-warmed kiss to the David's neck. "And what about what  _ you _ want, David?"

"I just...want this -" David gestured to the scant space between them, "to work for you?"

"Ah. I see. Then I have a few requests."

David swallowed. Of course. Now it was only a question of whether this go-round, it would be for him to become  _ less demanding but more assertive _ ,  _ calmer but more awake _ , and of course, ' _ less shrill. _ ' David’s exes had always been in agreement on that last point. 

“Your face did a thing, just then,” Patrick said, interrupting the memory playing out in David’s mind of one particularly hellish November, when both Shana and Jorge had told him he was too needy, but also emotionally inaccessible. “You know I’m kidding, right? You’re fine. But if  _ you  _ want space, I can back off, I can -”

“Okay,” David cut him off with a kiss. “I want to keep talking about this, but the hot water is running out, and I say stupid shit when I’m cold.”

“Let’s get you warmed up then,” Patrick said, reaching behind David’s back to shut off the tap. 

David stepped out of the shower first, reaching for the last of the clean, good towels and handing it to Patrick. He took one of the heinous motel towels Stevie had surreptitiously donated for himself. He was surprised at his own display of towel-related chivalry. 

“No way," Patrick protested. "Take the good towel.”

“No, no. I’m fine,” David insisted. 

“But you said the terry cloth of those crappy motel towels damages your hair. Or something.”

“I mean, correct, but I’ll survive.”  _ Probably _ , he added internally. 

“David, come on.” 

“No! I’m fine! The little towel is more than adequate!”

Patrick started laughing. “Okay. I’m noticing a theme here. So first, we’re getting all competitive about orgasm counts, then trying to out-respect each other about our shared living space, and now we’re fighting over this fucking towel.”

“This is not a ‘fucking towel.’ I will not fuck or be fucked on, or adjacent to, this monstrosity under any circumstances. It should be burned in a fire. After we can afford new towels.”

Patrick was wheezing now, bracing a hand on David’s bare shoulder to keep from falling over. 

“I like you so much,” Patrick said, once he'd caught his breath. “You have no idea.”

David nodded. “Nope, no idea at all. You should probably tell me all the time, at least hourly. And for the record...I like you too.”

“Then we’re alright. I think, and correct me if I’m off-base here, but maybe we’re both used to being the - the more generous one, in relationships?”

David wrapped the garbage towel around his waist, leaving a solid stretch of his thigh exposed by the inadequate width. Patrick’s eyes flicked down, obviously noticing. Which was absurd, as he’d been naked now for the better part of two hours. What was there left to notice, seriously. 

“So this situation is a little unconventional,” Patrick went on. “So what? We’ll figure it out as we go along. Is there anything you want to change right now?”

“...No?”

At Patrick’s smirk and raised eyebrows, David let loose. “You keep putting the little spoons where the big spoons go in the cutlery drawer, and this one time, you chopped onions on my cheese board and the good chèvre I bought tasted like sulphuric ass, and -”

Patrick was laughing again. And it was the weirdest thing. Instead of feeling that awful, panicked desire to unearth his fake passport, move to Tasmania, and assume a new identity like he almost had at 26, he felt -  _ God  _ \- warm. Fond, even. What the  _ fuck _ . 

“Come on, David,” Patrick said, tugging on his hand. “Are you going to bolt on me in the middle of the night when the dryer buzzes?”

This had, in fact, been David’s plan. 

“I mean, you can - there’s no pressure here. I like what we’ve been doing, and I think you do too. You’re not going to fuck it up.”

_ Oh, watch me _ , David thought, but he decided to keep his mouth shut and put it to better use kissing Patrick against the wall between the doors to their respective rooms. 

“How are you so -” David said against the still-damp skin of his neck, “-  _ relaxed _ , about everything?”

Patrick laughed, tipping his head back against the wall, and running his fingers under the edge of David’s towel. A liability really, as a person could get a paper cut from how rough this terry cloth was. It had to be made of recycled plastic bottles and melted-down sheet metal. 

“I don’t know.  _ You  _ make me feel relaxed, I think,” Patrick said, smiling. 

David nipped at his bottom lip, encouraging Patrick’s tongue into his mouth to stop him from saying anything else that made David feel things too big to feel this early on. 

Patrick’s hands were on his ass now, and, wait a second...

David stepped back, breaking the kiss. “No way. Not possible. How are you  _ hard _ right now? Were you lying about getting off during your first shower of the evening?”

"Nope," Patrick said, rocking his hips and his impossible dick into David’s. “My word is my bond.”

“Oh, is bondage on the table then?” David said, kissing the corner of Patrick’s grinning mouth. 

“Let’s circle back to that fucking towel conversation first, yeah?" Patrick said, squeezing his ass again. "Cover the basics?” 

“...Tonight, though? Really?” David said, mouth twisting in a grimace. Twice in two hours was already pulling at the limits of his abilities. 

“I’ll go easy on you and save the towel talk for tomorrow. Sound okay?”

“Mmhmm. You really took it out of me,” David said, cupping a hand around the back of Patrick’s head and pressing him back against the wall in another kiss. When he pulled away, Patrick’s eyes were hooded, and he looked more than a little kiss-drunk. Flattering. 

“My room?” Patrick said, lacing his fingers with David’s. David nodded, feeling much calmer about the prospect of bed-sharing now that there were multiple hours and two orgasms in between Stevie’s painfully accurate snark from this afternoon and this moment. 

*

Patrick fell asleep first, as per the routine set in the handful of times they’d shared a bed thus far. This had the advantage of providing David guilt-free time to stare at him. The little pout to his mouth, the curve of his jaw - David could enjoy these and other splendors without being caught. Ideal, really. Why had he protested the bed-sharing in the first place? 

Ten minutes or so into his study of Patrick’s hairline (neat), ears (weird, but whose weren’t, on close examination?), and the visible portion of his neck (biteable), Patrick hummed and rolled to his back, offering up his profile for David’s ruminations. David finally fell asleep admiring Patrick’s annoyingly symmetrical nose and liking the person attached to it so, so much.


End file.
